Meanwhile, I was sitting in the kitchen of our cozy suburban home, sifting through the day’s mail. There was nothing unusual, at first. Bills, advertisements, and a random catalog I’d never requested.

But tucked between a grocery coupon and a credit card offer, I spotted a yellowed envelope with frayed edges. That was odd, yet what was even more surprising was the postmark dating back 20 years.

Upon closer inspection, I recognized Ernest’s messy handwriting. Had he sent it? Based on the date, we must have been in high school still. He and I started dating a couple of years after graduation and got married 15 years ago.

The idea that he’d sent me something even before that was extremely exciting and romantic, so I smiled as I ripped into the envelope.

Inside was a single piece of paper and ten small photographs. There was a message on the note and the words immediately made my smile disappear:

“I DID THIS FOR US, BUT YOU MUST KEEP SILENT.”

What did that mean? I really had no idea, so I glanced at the photos, hoping they might explain.

Thomas.

I gulped as the memories came back. Soon, tears started stinging my eyes.

Thomas had been a friend of ours, too. He was a sweet, goofy guy who had tragically drowned one summer. It was a horrific event. I always thought the best of him. I always… well. But staring at his photograph, I noticed something else.

Thomas was standing by the lake where he met his end, while everyone else’s photos were taken at the school. Why was his image different? And why did my husband write that strange note? Were those two things related?

I was still holding the photos and the note when the back door creaked open. Ernest walked into the kitchen, his gloves and hands streaked with dirt from yard work.

He smiled briefly at me, but as soon as his eyes landed on what I was holding, the smile vanished.

“Where did you get that?” he asked sharply.

I hesitated. “It came in the mail,” I said, holding the envelope up. “Ernest, what is this? You sent it 20 years ago? And this note…” I unfolded the paper, showing him the bold words.

My husband’s eyes darted between the note and the photos in rapid succession, but he didn’t say a thing.

At last, he let out a laugh, a breathless sound.

“Wow, I can’t believe it really showed up after all this time,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “There was a company that offered to send you packages in the future. I was just messing around back then. I thought they went bankrupt.”

I frowned. Was there really such a thing? Like a time capsule messenger service? I had no idea, but in any case, it didn’t explain the note.

Ernest laughed awkwardly again.

“I was trying to get better at photography back then. I wanted to be a photojournalist, remember? I think I was also trying to impress you. You’d friend-zoned me in high school. But also, I didn’t want others to know. It wasn’t exactly the coolest thing for a guy to be into. I probably wrote that just in case the package was sent immediately by mistake. I didn’t want you to tell anyone.”

He took a deep breath after finishing that long-winded explanation and turned, removing his gloves and beginning to wash his hands.

Ernest turned slightly and frowned, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “Oh, I probably didn’t catch him at school and took another photo at the lake instead. He was my friend, too, you know,” he sighed as he dried his hands. “It’s sad to see that picture at all and know what happened later.”

With a nod and a deep breath, my husband left the kitchen. He didn’t rush, but his back was still stiff. I stayed back and stared at the photos again as if I could see something new; some clue I hadn’t spotted before.

As a matter of fact, there was a time when… if things had been different… Thomas could have been my….

I didn’t even notice that 30 minutes had passed until Ernest returned to the kitchen, freshly showered. I tracked his movements as he poured himself some water and drank it casually.

“Ernest,” I began.

“Yeap?” he said, too nonchalantly, widening his eyes in curiosity.

“Are you sure nothing else is going on?” I insisted, holding up Thomas’s photo again.

He frowned. “What are you really asking, Suzanne?”

I looked down at the table and licked my lips. I didn’t know how to express myself without any… accusation.

“It’s just that your face and your body language were pretty strange when I showed you the note and the photos,” I said and smiled, hoping to be reassuring. “Is there something else you’re not telling me? You know I love you. You can tell me anything. We’ll get through it.”

He exhaled and put the water glass down on the counter.

“Maybe, there was some inside joke between us,” Ernest suggested, shaking his head. “Again, I don’t know. But we can just throw this out if it’s worrying you.”

My hands instinctively placed Thomas’s photo behind my back, like I was shielding it. Ernest raised an eyebrow at me, so I started speaking.

“Okay, then,” he said, approaching me. His hands touched my shoulders, and he kissed me quickly before going to the living room to watch TV.

Once he was out of view, I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. I also tried to push down my crazy imagination before the idea of two teen boys standing by a lake appeared behind my eyes.

No. I was not going there.

Instead, I pictured the Ernest I knew: the great husband, who massaged my feet when I was pregnant, the unbelievable father who never missed our kids’ games, and the amazing provider who gave us a beautiful home, tended to the garden, and occasionally grilled the best steak in town.

And with those very real memories in mind, I let my worries go. I put the photos and the note back into the envelope and stored them in a drawer where we kept random things.

I finally left the kitchen and smiled sweetly at my husband as I passed through the living room toward our bedroom. Once in bed, I reached for my phone.

He had even prepared dinner, and our teens were already at the table, chatting wildly about their day. My husband laughed and asked them questions while we dug into the food.

It was then that I took a good look at us, at this perfect moment in time with our family. I knew that in 50 years, I would still remember how happy we were.

And I wanted more of that. So, I looked at Ernest and squeezed his hand before turning to my kids with a smile. I listened intently to their conversation. It was a great dinner.

I had a wild imagination. I knew that. What’s more, I also knew that the podcasts I listened to tended to make me paranoid, even if I thought they were soothing.

But this was my reality. This was the truth and what mattered. I wasn’t going to jeopardize that by coming up with crazy scenarios and questioning Ernest’s words. I believed him fully, and I still do.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.