Derek spent weeks in the shed building what he called a “surprise” for our tenth anniversary. I imagined something romantic—a handmade jewelry box, maybe a heartfelt sculpture. But on the big day, he unveiled a bizarre contraption: a cage-like press with my gift locked inside. “You’ll have to work for it,” he said, grinning, before heading out to golf. I stared at the thing, stunned. Was this a joke? A punishment? I’d spent a decade carrying our marriage, and now I had to earn my own anniversary present?
I spent hours unscrewing bolts, my fingers raw, my knees aching. I cried—not from sadness, but sheer frustration. This was supposed to be a celebration, not a test. When one bolt refused to budge, I stormed into Derek’s shed for tools. That’s when I found the velvet box. Inside was a gold locket engraved “To M—Love always, D.” My heart dropped. M? Who was M? I opened it and saw a photo of a woman I vaguely recognized. Receipts for dinners, spa treatments, and designer gifts spilled from the drawer. My stomach turned. Had he been cheating?
Fueled by rage, I grabbed the angle grinder and tore through the press. Inside was a framed photo from our honeymoon and a note: “We’ve come so far. Still my girl.” I laughed, then sobbed. When Derek returned, I confronted him. He claimed the locket was for his mom, the photo inside hers from years ago. He swore he wasn’t cheating, just trying to keep me busy while he queued for theater tickets I’d been begging for. He handed them to me, eyes full of regret. “Ten years deserves something special,” he said.
I didn’t forgive him instantly. I was still furious. But I saw the effort, the intention buried beneath the chaos. “You’re an idiot,” I told him. “But you’re my idiot.” The press, the mystery, the misunderstanding—it all felt like a metaphor for our marriage: messy, painful, but somehow still worth fighting for. I made him promise never to pull something like that again. And as we got ready for the show, I realized maybe, just maybe, we’d survive another decade.
