Derek had spent weeks tinkering away in his shed, hammering, sawing, and assembling something he insisted would be my “biggest surprise yet” for our tenth wedding anniversary. I had imagined romance—flowers, jewelry, maybe even a long-overdue getaway. Instead, what he unveiled was a strange wooden cage contraption with my gift locked inside. And in the process of trying to free it, I uncovered a secret I never expected.
Three weeks before our anniversary, Derek burst into the kitchen with plywood sheets and long metal rods balanced in his arms.
“What on earth is all that for?” I asked as he shuffled past, leaving a trail of sawdust.
His eyes gleamed. “It’s for your anniversary gift. You’re going to love it—this is going to blow your mind!”
I was stunned. Derek, my husband who usually settled on a blender, a vacuum, or a gift voucher for anniversaries, was suddenly building me something?
That evening, while I washed dishes, I heard the shrill whine of his power saw through the kitchen window. It grated on my nerves but also filled me with curiosity. Derek had some woodworking skills—he once built his mom a cedar chest and proudly crafted a case for his golf trophies. Maybe he was making me a jewelry box? But the size of those rods puzzled me. What could he possibly be building?
Every time I tried fishing for clues, Derek just smiled knowingly. “You’ll have to wait, Clara. A surprise is a surprise.”
When the big day finally arrived, Derek called me into the living room with a mischievous grin.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
I heard scraping and the shuffle of something heavy being positioned. My heart fluttered with excitement. Maybe he had actually gone all out this year.
“Okay, open them.”
I opened my eyes—and froze.
There, in the center of the living room, stood what looked like a giant, homemade press. Two heavy plywood slabs clamped together with those long rods, fastened with dozens of nuts, formed a sort of cage. Trapped inside was a gift-wrapped box.
“What… is this?” I whispered.
Derek tapped one of the nuts with his finger like a magician showing off a trick. “It’s your gift! But you’ll have to work for it this time.”
Work for it? I stood there in disbelief. After ten years of marriage, four of which I’d spent juggling my job, the housework, and all the emotional labor while he disappeared for golf and work, he thought it would be funny to make me *earn* my anniversary gift?
Before I could respond, he kissed my cheek, grabbed his golf bag, and headed for the door.
“Enjoy the challenge, babe! I’ll be back just in time to see you open it.”
And just like that, my husband left me with his bizarre contraption.
For a moment, I considered smashing the thing apart with a hammer. But some small, hopeful part of me thought, *Maybe the gift inside will make this worth it.* So I played along.
I made myself a cup of hot chocolate, put on some music, and began unscrewing the nuts one by one.
The first few came off easily, but after an hour, my fingers were raw and aching. By hour two, my knees hurt from crouching on the floor. By hour three, I was sweating and near tears.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, twisting another stubborn nut. “It’s our tenth anniversary, and I’m stuck here doing manual labor instead of having dinner somewhere nice.”
Still, I pressed on. I kept imagining what might be in the box—maybe perfume, maybe jewelry. Something thoughtful, surely.
But then I hit a nut that wouldn’t budge. I tried everything, but it was jammed solid. Frustrated, I stomped out to Derek’s sacred shed to fetch a wrench.
His shed was a shrine to orderliness—tools hung neatly on pegboards, each with its own outline, everything polished and labeled. Funny how he could be meticulous here but not in our home.
I scanned the board. The wrench was missing. My suspicion rose. Had he deliberately hidden it to make this harder for me?
I began rifling through drawers. The second drawer made me freeze.
Inside lay a small velvet jewelry box. My pulse quickened. Could this be the *real* gift?
I opened it carefully. Inside was a beautiful gold heart-shaped locket with delicate engravings. My breath caught. This was the romantic gift I’d hoped for. My frustration melted—until I turned it over.
“To M — Love always, D.”
M?
My heart lurched. Who was M? My mind flooded with possibilities—Maggie from his office? Michelle, his college ex? Or maybe Mary, his secretary?
With shaking hands, I opened the locket. Inside was a black-and-white photo of a young woman who looked eerily familiar. Where had I seen her before?
I dug deeper into the drawer. Receipts spilled out—fancy restaurants, spa packages, jewelry stores. None of which I had ever enjoyed. My stomach churned. Derek had been spending money on someone else.
Anger surged through me. I grabbed his angle grinder from the wall, stormed back into the living room, and attacked the cage contraption. Sparks flew as the blade screamed through the steel rods.
Within minutes, I tore the wooden slabs apart and freed the gift-wrapped box.
Inside was a framed photo of Derek and me from our honeymoon, with a note taped to the back: “We’ve come so far. Still my girl.”
I collapsed on the couch, laughing hysterically through tears. What kind of twisted man gifts his wife a prison for her anniversary while hiding jewelry meant for another woman?
When Derek returned, still in his golf clothes, he froze.
“Clara, what are you doing?!”
I held up the locket. “I found *this* in your shed. Who’s M, Derek? How long have you been cheating on me?”
His face drained of color. “Clara, no! M stands for Mom. It’s for my mother’s birthday next week. Didn’t you notice the picture inside? It’s her.”
I blinked. My heart stuttered. Now that he said it, the woman did resemble my mother-in-law in her younger years.
But my anger didn’t fade. “Then why keep it hidden with receipts for dinners and gifts I never got? Why build me *this* monstrosity instead of something thoughtful?”
Derek knelt beside me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought it would be fun, like a puzzle. I wanted to keep you busy while I got your real surprise.”
From his pocket, he pulled out two tickets—for the theater show I’d begged him to take me to for months.
“I skipped golf today to stand in line for these,” he said softly. “Ten years, Clara. I wanted to do something different, something special.”
I stared at the tickets in silence. My fury dulled, but not completely.
“Derek,” I said finally, “you’re an idiot. But you’re *my* idiot. A couple of tickets don’t erase what you put me through today, but at least I know you weren’t cheating. Don’t you *ever* pull something like this again.”
“Never again,” he promised.
And though I was still angry, I couldn’t deny a part of me felt relieved. He wasn’t unfaithful. Just thoughtless. And maybe, just maybe, still worth the effort.