When Nancy stumbles upon an unexpected letter in her husband David’s laundry, her picture-perfect life begins to crumble.
The note, penned by David, invites an enigmatic woman to commemorate their “seven-year anniversary.”
What further secrets could the laundry unveil?
In our home, doing the laundry was part of mom’s routine. While David was helpful in the kitchen and with the kids, laundry and bathroom chores were off-limits for him.
“I can’t handle the hair in the drain,” he grimaced when I asked him to pitch in.
“It’s just my hair, and our daughter’s,” I laughed.
“Still gross,” he replied.
Yet the rhythmic sound of the washer and the dryer provided me with a calming solitude I cherished. It became my time to unwind.
That is, until laundry day unearthed more than just soiled clothes.
As I rifled through David’s garments, a faint crinkle of paper interrupted my otherwise mindless task.
A neatly folded letter slipped out from a shirt, landing softly on the floor.
Happy anniversary, babe! These 7 years have been the best of my life! Meet me at Obélix on Wednesday night, 8 p.m.
Wear red.
The handwriting was unmistakably David’s — the distinct loops and the firm strokes of his pen sent chills down my spine.
Seven years? David and I have been married for eighteen. We have two daughters, and our anniversary is still six months away.
And Obélix?
The most upscale restaurant in town? Just recently, David insisted we cut back on spending.
“We need to cook more at home, Nancy,” he had stated. “Less takeout.
The girls will just have to adjust — we’ve been wasting money.”
“Are we in financial trouble?” I had wondered aloud.
“No, not at all,” he reassured me. “It’s just good to be prudent.”
The anticipation for Wednesday became all-consuming. I was determined to uncover the truth behind David’s secretive note.
The day after the discovery, I checked his shirt pocket again, but it was empty.
Signed, sealed, and delivered, I mused.
“I’m working late tonight, honey,” he announced while I was preparing breakfast.
“Should I save you a plate, or will you eat out?” I asked, fully aware of his dinner plans with the mysterious woman in red.
“I’ll grab something on my way back,” he replied, departing with his travel mug in hand.
The day dragged on as I navigated school drop-offs and the loud chatter of five schoolgirls heading home. Yet, David lingered in my thoughts.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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