Margaret never imagined she’d come home one day to find her husband, Martin, digging up their front garden—with his ex-wife. Yes, his ex-wife! Their clothes were dirty, their hands were covered in soil, and they were whispering like they had something to hide. The perfect picture she had of her husband started to crack that very moment.
“I’ve heard of men cheating with coworkers or old flames,” Margaret thought, “but never in a million years did I think I’d have to worry about that with Martin. He was the perfect man… or so I believed.”
They had met two years earlier, through a mutual friend. Margaret had just gotten out of a long, five-year relationship and was feeling completely broken. She doubted herself, her worth, everything.
Then Martin entered her life—like sunlight after a storm.
He was gentle and kind. He listened when she talked, never looking at his phone, always paying full attention. One evening, when she had the flu, he knocked on her door carrying homemade chicken soup and a laptop filled with her favorite romantic comedies.
“Everyone needs a little TLC when they’re under the weather,” he said with a warm smile.
Right then, Margaret had thought, This is it. He’s the one.
Martin had a cute quirk—he stammered when he got nervous. Margaret found it adorable.
Once, on their “monthiversary,” Martin had taken her to a fancy Italian restaurant. He was telling her all about a new software his accounting firm was using.
“This software is going to totally change how we manage client data,” he said, waving his fork excitedly.
But then—clatter! The fork flew from his hand, hit the floor, and splashed tomato sauce all over his shirt.
His face turned beet red. “I-I-I’m s-s-sorry,” he stammered, eyes wide. “Wh-what a mess.”
Margaret reached over the table and took his hand. “Hey. It’s okay. Besides, red’s your color,” she teased.
They both laughed. Later, over dessert, he confessed that he always stammered when embarrassed.
As they grew closer, Martin shared more about his past—including his previous marriage to a woman named Janet.
“She always wanted more—more money, more things, more attention,” Martin had told her. “No matter what I did, it was never enough.”
He said the marriage collapsed under her constant demands and endless spending.
“It felt like I was drowning and she just kept pushing my head down,” he’d said one night while they cuddled on the couch.
Margaret had promised herself she would never be like that. She loved Martin for who he was, not what he could buy.
A year later, Martin proposed. She didn’t hesitate. Their wedding was small and lovely—one of the happiest days of her life.
But last Tuesday changed everything.
Margaret had been visiting her mom for the weekend. On her way back home, she stopped to pick up the ingredients for Martin’s favorite dish—lasagna. She couldn’t wait to surprise him.
But the real surprise was waiting for her.
As she pulled into the driveway, her heart stopped.
There, in the middle of her carefully tended garden, were Martin and Janet—digging up the flower beds like dogs searching for buried treasure.
Margaret froze. Was she hallucinating?
Nope. It was them.
She stormed out of her car.
“What on earth is going on here?” she demanded, her voice trembling with rage.
Martin spun around, startled. “M-M-Margaret! Y-you’re home early.”
And there it was—the stammer. The sign he was nervous. The sign he was hiding something.
Margaret’s brain exploded with questions. Was he cheating on her? Had they never actually split up? Why were they secretly digging in the yard?
“I—I can explain—” Martin started, but Janet cut in.
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Tell me what?” Margaret snapped.
Janet pointed at a small metal box sticking out of the dirt. “Ten years ago, when we lived here, Martin and I buried a time capsule. We agreed we’d dig it up one day.”
Martin looked sheepish. “We thought it’d be fun to, you know, look back on old times…”
Margaret stared at him. “So you tore up my garden for your little nostalgia project?”
“I-I didn’t mean—” Martin tried.
“No. You didn’t think,” she said, and turned sharply to head into the house.
Inside, she paced the living room, furious. She couldn’t believe what she’d just seen. How could Martin do this without telling her? How could he let Janet back in their lives like this?
A few minutes later, Martin called out gently, “Margaret? Can we talk?”
She stepped into the hallway. Martin and Janet stood there, holding the dirty old time capsule between them.
“What’s there to talk about?” she asked coldly.
“Please,” Martin said. “It’s not what you think.”
Janet nodded. “We just wanted to look at a few old memories. That’s all.”
Margaret held up a hand. “Fine. Reminisce all you want. I’ll be outside.”
She left them there, walked into the backyard, and stared at the ruined garden.
Then she had an idea.
She grabbed firewood and built a bonfire. The sky was starting to turn orange as the sun set.
From the house, she could hear Martin and Janet laughing. Laughing. Over their shared past.
“Hey!” she shouted toward the kitchen. “Bring that time capsule out here. We’re having a bonfire!”
Martin and Janet came outside, still smiling. Martin set the metal box down by the fire.
“This is actually kind of nice,” he said, looking hopeful.
Margaret opened the box, pulled out some photos and letters, and without a word, tossed them into the flames.
“Margaret, what are you doing?” Janet gasped.
Martin’s face fell. “Wait—what—why are you burning them?”
Margaret looked them both in the eye. “Burnt bridges should stay burnt. Don’t you think?”
Martin didn’t answer. Neither did Janet.
“It’s time to stop digging up the past and start building the future, Martin,” she said quietly.
They stood there in silence, watching the fire crackle and eat away the paper memories.
Then, without another word, Janet said, “I think I should go.” She turned and walked away. Nobody stopped her.
Once they were alone, Martin looked at Margaret. His eyes were watery.
“I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “I should have told you. I never meant to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t understand?” Margaret asked.
“I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared you’d think I still cared about Janet. Scared you’d be mad about the garden. I thought I could dig it up while you were gone and it would be over before you knew it. I was wrong. I messed up, badly. Can you ever forgive me?”
Margaret sighed, staring into the fire.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “You broke my trust. That’s not easy to fix.”
Martin nodded. “I get it. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
He turned and went back into the house.
Margaret stayed by the fire until the flames died down. She looked around at the ruined garden—holes in the earth, flowers trampled.
It’ll need new soil, she thought. New seeds. New life.
Maybe their marriage could be like that too.
Maybe.
Only time would tell.
But one thing was for sure: she would never see Martin the same way again.
