One quiet Saturday afternoon, I discovered a yellowed envelope in the mail, postmarked 20 years ago. It was addressed in my husband Ernest’s handwriting from when we were in high school. Inside, there was a note: “I DID THIS FOR US, BUT YOU MUST KEEP SILENT.” Along with the note were ten photos from our teenage years. Most were of friends, including Ernest and me, but one photo of Thomas, a friend who had tragically drowned, stood out. It was taken by a lake, not at school like the others. My heart sank.
When Ernest entered, he looked startled upon seeing the photos and note. I asked him what it meant, but he laughed it off, claiming it was a prank from a time capsule service. He explained the note as part of his attempt to impress me back then.
But something didn’t sit right. I asked him why Thomas’s photo was taken at the lake. Ernest hesitated, saying he was probably just trying to capture him when he wasn’t at school. His awkward response made me uneasy, but I tried to let it go.
That evening, Ernest seemed normal, and our family dinner was warm and happy. Yet, my mind lingered on the photo and the strange message. I pushed my worries aside, convinced I was just being paranoid. I trusted my husband, and nothing would make me question that.
