“Ben? What is that?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Nothing, Reggie. Just go inside,” he stammered, clearly hiding something. I felt a chill as I watched him bury the egg deeper, his actions desperate. Something was off—this wasn’t just a simple mistake.
That night, sleep eluded me. Around 3 a.m., I watched through the window as Ben checked the buried egg, pacing nervously. The next morning, I grabbed the shovel and unearthed the egg. To my shock, it was hollow and made of plastic, not shell—an artificial artifact.
I found a news story on the radio about a counterfeit antique scam involving black eggs. The pieces clicked into place. When Ben came home, I confronted him.
“I paid fifteen thousand for it,” he admitted, ashamed. “I thought I could sell it for a huge profit and surprise you.”
My heart sank. Ben had gambled our savings on a fake.
“I was trying to fix things,” he whispered.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said, taking his hand. “No more secrets. We’re in this together.”
We decided to keep the egg, planting it in the garden as a reminder of the trust we needed to rebuild. “Maybe we’ll call it our ‘trust egg,’” I joked, and Ben laughed, relieved.
