On a flight to D.C., I was settling into my seat when the woman next to me made a call. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop—just looking for my headphones—when I heard her say my wife’s name: Ellen. Then she said something that made my blood run cold: “Did you send your husband off?”

“He’ll be in pieces.” The woman sounded cheerful. Almost excited. I couldn’t hear Ellen’s side of the call, but every word the stranger said felt like a puzzle I didn’t want to solve. Was it just coincidence? Was this about my Ellen? By the time we landed, I couldn’t shake the feeling something was terribly wrong. I cut my trip short and booked the next flight home. When I walked through the door, I didn’t find lies or betrayal.

I found chaos—craft supplies, open boxes, kids in costume, and Ellen standing in the middle of it all, holding a glue stick like a weapon.She was stunned to see me. “I overheard a call,” I said. “She said you sent your husband off… that he’d be in pieces.” And then—Ellen burst out laughing. She explained everything. The woman on the plane? Cynthia, her old college roommate. The call?

About a surprise anniversary scavenger hunt. “He’ll be in pieces” referred to puzzle pieces—clues leading to the restaurant where we had our first date. That night, we ended up there, candlelight flickering, memories all around us. I was still shaken, still a little embarrassed, but mostly grateful—grateful for a love that still had surprises in store. Next year, I told her, maybe just a dinner reservation? She smiled. “No promises.”