On a flight to D.C., I overheard something that shook me to the core. As I searched for my headphones, the woman in the next seat answered her phone. “Hi, Ellen,” she said. My wife’s name. I froze, listening as the caller continued. “So, did you already send your husband off? … He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow, so you’ve got plenty of time. Don’t panic. You’ve got this! He’ll be in pieces.” My blood ran cold. I was supposed to return the day after tomorrow. Suddenly, I was certain this was about my Ellen—and me.

The rest of the flight was a blur of panic. By the time we landed, I’d convinced myself Ellen was hiding something terrible. I switched my ticket and flew home the next morning, dread pressing down on me the whole way. My imagination tortured me with visions of betrayal and loss.

But when I walked through the door, I found chaos—not heartbreak. Boxes, craft supplies, and toys littered the living room. Garlic wafted from the kitchen. Ellen, frazzled and flushed, looked startled to see me. My fears spilled out in a rush: the overheard call, the phrases that haunted me, the suspicion she was about to leave me.

For a moment, she stared at me—then burst out laughing. Tears ran down her face as she explained. The call had been with her old college roommate, Cynthia. Together, they were planning a surprise scavenger hunt for our anniversary. “He’ll be in pieces” referred to puzzle clues, not heartbreak.

That evening, the final clue led us back to the restaurant where we’d had our first date. Sitting across from Ellen, her hand warm in mine, I felt relief flood through me.

“Next year,” I teased, “maybe just dinner?” She smirked. “No promises.”