My husband swore his weekend business trips were mandatory for his promotion. I was sorting laundry when I STIFFENED, feeling a hard lump deep in his coat lining. I ripped the seam and found a sleek burner phone. My hands shook as I powered it on. The screen displayed a single unread message that made the room spin.

It read: Target acquired. The package is heavy. Meet at LZ Alpha at 0800. Bring the cash.

I dropped the phone like it was made of lava. It bounced off the pile of dirty towels and landed face up, the blue light mocking me. My first thought wasn’t cheating, which is weird, right? You usually jump straight to the “other woman” scenario.

But “LZ Alpha”? “Target acquired”? That didn’t sound like a mistress. It sounded like Michael was into something dangerous.

I sat on the cold tile floor of the laundry room, hugging my knees. The dryer hummed rhythmically next to me, a stark contrast to the chaotic noise in my head. I tried to picture Michael, the man who wears socks with sandals and cries during dog food commercials, doing a drug deal. It didn’t fit.

But then I remembered the money. We had been tight lately, and he was always vague about where his “bonuses” were going.

I needed to clear my head before he got home. I grabbed my keys and drove to my shop, “Petals & Thorns.” Even though it was closed, the smell of damp earth and cut stems usually calmed me down.

I unlocked the back door and flipped on the dim security lights. The air inside was cool and smelled strictly of eucalyptus and stale water. I walked over to the prep table, which was still covered in the debris from the morning rush.

I picked up a pair of shears, the metal cold and heavy in my grip. I needed to clean the workspace, just to do something with my hands.

I started with the leftover roses, stripping the thorns with quick, aggressive swipes. The snick-snick sound of the blades cutting through the green stems echoed in the empty room. I watched a thorn fly off and hit the concrete floor, bouncing away into the shadows.

Next, I swept the trimmings into a pile. The smell of crushed leaves rose up, sharp and green, stinging my nose. It was a smell I usually loved, but tonight it made me nauseous.

Finally, I scrubbed the table with a rough sponge. The friction burned my knuckles, but I didn’t stop until the stainless steel gleamed under the singular bulb.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Michael.

— Hey babe!

I stared at the text. He sounded so normal. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

The next morning was Saturday. The “Business Trip.” Michael was up early, packing a duffel bag in the hallway. He looked nervous. He kept checking his watch and patting his pocket—the pocket where the burner phone usually wasn’t.

He kissed me on the forehead, his lips feeling like a lie.

— I gotta run! Traffic is going to be a nightmare!

— Be safe!

My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from someone else. I waited exactly three minutes after his car pulled out of the driveway. Then I grabbed my purse and ran to my own car.

I knew he was heading north. He always mentioned the “regional office” in Oaksdale. I merged onto the highway, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I spotted his grey sedan three cars ahead.

We drove for forty minutes. We passed the exit for Oaksdale. He didn’t turn.

My heart hammered against my ribs. He kept driving, deeper into the rural county, past the suburbs and into the woods. He finally pulled off onto a gravel road that led into a dense forest preserve.

I parked my car behind a cluster of dumpsters near the trailhead entrance. I watched him get out. He wasn’t wearing his suit anymore. He had changed into something dark.

I crept closer, hiding behind a thick oak tree. The woods were quiet, save for the crunch of dry leaves under my boots.

I saw him meet another man. The guy was huge, wearing a trench coat and sunglasses, even though it was overcast. They were whispering. Michael handed him an envelope. The “Cash.”

The big guy handed Michael a large, black, hard-shell case. It looked exactly like the kind of case a sniper rifle comes in.

My legs turned to jelly. I leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, gasping for air. This was it. My husband was an assassin. Or a gun runner.

The decomposition of my reality happened in three distinct waves.

First, I felt the physical betrayal in my gut. It was a sharp, twisting cramp, like I had swallowed broken glass. My sweat turned cold, sticking my shirt to my back. I thought I was going to throw up right there on the forest floor.

Then came the memories, tainted and re-contextualized. Every time he came home with mud on his boots, I thought he had stopped at a park. Every time he had a bruise on his shoulder, he said he bumped into a filing cabinet. It was all a lie. He was living a double life.

Finally, the fear of the future crushed me. Prison. Witness protection. Me, visiting him through glass. Losing the flower shop because the Feds seized our assets. I saw my entire life unspooling into a dark, terrifying void.

I couldn’t let him do this. I had to stop him before he killed someone.

I stepped out from behind the tree.

— Michael!

He spun around. The big guy in the trench coat jumped and nearly dropped the case. Michael’s face went pale.

— Lisa?

— Put it down!

I screamed it, my voice cracking. I pointed a shaking finger at the black case.

— Lisa, what are you doing here?

— I found the phone, Michael! I know about the target! I know about LZ Alpha! Put the gun down!

Michael looked at the big guy. The big guy looked at Michael.

— Gun?

Michael looked confused. He looked down at the case, then back at me.

— Lisa, this isn’t a gun.

— Don’t lie to me! I saw the messages! “The package is heavy!” You handed him money!

— It is heavy!

The big guy took a step back, raising his hands.

— Whoa, lady! I don’t want any trouble! I’m just the seller!

— Seller of what? Death?

I was hysterical now. I marched over to the case. Michael tried to block me.

— Lisa, wait, please! It’s embarrassing!

— Embarrassing? You’re going to jail, Michael!

I shoved him aside. He stumbled into a bush. I grabbed the latches of the black case. I expected to see a disassembled rifle, or bricks of cocaine, or maybe even a severed head.

I threw the lid open.

Inside, nestled in custom-cut foam, was a very large, very intricate, plastic spaceship. It was grey and unpainted.

I stared at it. I blinked.

— What is this?

Michael stood up, brushing leaves off his dark pants. He looked at his shoes.

— It’s a Thunderhawk Gunship. For my Warhammer 40k army.

— A what?

— It’s a model, Lisa! A miniature!

— A miniature? It’s the size of a microwave!

The big guy in the trench coat chimed in.

— It’s a rare out-of-print resin cast! Forged World doesn’t sell these anymore! It’s a classic!

I looked at the big guy. Under his open trench coat, he was wearing a t-shirt that said “Dice Don’t Lie.”

I looked back at Michael.

— You have a burner phone for a model airplane?

— It’s not a phone for the model! It’s for the squad!

— The squad?

— My gaming group! We take the immersion seriously, Lisa! We simulate military comms for the campaigns! “LZ Alpha” is the picnic table by the creek! “The Target” is the model!

— And the money?

Michael winced.

— It cost eight hundred dollars.

— Eight hundred dollars?

— It’s resin! And I had to pay cash because you look at the credit card statements like a hawk!

I stood there in the middle of the woods, staring at an unpainted plastic toy that cost more than my car payment. The adrenaline was draining out of me, replaced by a profound, exhaustion-inducing realization of just how stupid my husband was.

— So you’re not a hitman?

— No! I’m a Space Marine Commander!

— You’re an idiot, Michael!

— I know! I just didn’t want you to be mad about the money!

— I thought you were killing people!

— With what? My dice?

I started laughing. It was a manic, crazy sound that scared a nearby squirrel. I laughed until I was crying. Michael stood there, holding his giant plastic spaceship, looking terrified.

— Are we getting a divorce?

— No! But you are returning this!

— I can’t return it! All sales are final!

The big guy was already backing away toward a beat-up van.

— No refunds! Pleasure doing business!

He jumped in the van and peeled out, leaving a cloud of dust.

Michael looked at me with puppy dog eyes.

— Can I keep it? I’ll paint it pink? For the shop?

I looked at the plastic ship. I looked at my husband, who was basically a twelve-year-old trapped in a thirty-five-year-old’s body.

— Get in the car, Michael.

— Does that mean yes?

— It means you’re driving me to brunch. And you’re paying.

— I spent all my cash.

— Then you’re washing dishes. Let’s go!

We walked back to the cars. He carried the case like it was the Crown Jewels.

I drove home following him, just like I had on the way there. But this time, instead of terror, I felt a weird mix of relief and annoyance.

When we got home, he set the spaceship on the kitchen table. It took up half the surface. It was ugly. It was grey. It was ridiculous.

But it wasn’t a gun.

He spent the rest of the weekend painting it. He didn’t go on his “Business Trip” to the tournament. He sat at the kitchen table with a tiny brush and a magnifying glass, humming to himself.

I watched him from the living room. I was drinking coffee, feeling the warmth of the mug against my palms. It was a peaceful silence, broken only by him occasionally cursing when his hand slipped.

I realized something then. Marriage isn’t always about big, dramatic betrayals. Sometimes, it’s about tolerating the absolute absurdity of the person you love. It’s about finding a burner phone and hoping it’s drugs, only to find out it’s a plastic toy for a game played by grown men in basements.

I walked over and kissed the top of his head. He looked up, startled, a smear of blue paint on his nose.

— What was that for?

— For not being a drug lord!

— You set the bar really low, babe!

— Just paint the ship, Commander!

I still have the burner phone. I keep it in my drawer at the flower shop. Sometimes, when things get stressful, I take it out and read that message about “The Package.” It reminds me that things could always be worse. My husband could be dangerous. Instead, he’s just a nerd.

Trust your gut, but maybe verify the “weapon” before you panic, because sometimes the “heavy package” is just an overpriced toy! Like and Share this if your partner has a hobby that makes absolutely no financial sense!