I came home early, expecting hugs and joyful chaos — but found my home silent and empty. Then I spotted a strange tent in the backyard. My husband crawled out, sweaty and disheveled.
I looked inside, and when I saw who else was in the tent, a shocking truth began to unravel. I wasn’t supposed to be home until Friday. The business trip ended early; something about budget cuts and redundant meetings.
Whatever the reason, I was grateful. “You know what?” I said to myself in the airport restroom, reapplying lipstick after a six-hour flight. “Let’s surprise them.”
I pictured my kids, Emma and Liam, launching themselves at me like little rockets.
They always did that, no matter if I’d been gone three days or three hours. And John would have that slow smile spread across his face, the one that still made my stomach flip after 12 years. The Uber dropped me at our modest suburban home around 2 p.m.
I rolled my suitcase up the walkway. “Hello? I’m home!” I called, pushing open the front door.
Silence. No clatter of toys or the mind-numbing jingle of kids’ YouTube videos. Not even the low hum of the dishwasher.
My stomach dipped. Where was everyone?
The kids should’ve been home from school by now, and John worked from home on Wednesdays. “John?
Kids? Anyone home?” I called again, dropping my bags in the hallway. I wandered toward the kitchen, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors.
The kitchen counter was clean — too clean, actually. John wasn’t exactly a neat freak. That’s when I glanced out the window and gasped.
There, smack in the middle of our backyard, sat a large dome-shaped camping tent. It looked like it had dropped from the sky. I chuckled.
“Oh, he’s camping with the kids. That’s cute.”
But something felt off. The grass around the tent was flattened like it had been there for days.
And we didn’t own a tent. Did we?
Slipping off my heels, I padded outside. As I stepped closer, the tent flap rustled.
…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇
