My husband left on a month-long business trip, and I tried to transfer his favorite potted cactus, but I shattered it while moving it. But what I found in the shattered pot altered everything. How weird that random incidents may affect our life.
Simple, apparently trivial things upend everything and change everything. My turning point was a common cactus. Maybe I should start my narrative there.
Early Saturday morning. Spring sun illuminated our flat in warm gold. My husband, John, spent a month in New York on business.
Long absences were common at his major construction firm. I was used to his absence, yet I missed him. Since I was alone in the flat, I rearranged some furnishings. I wanted to update the décor for a long, but John was conservative and wanted everything in its place.
He was especially reverent about his cactus collection, which he’d been collecting for several years. On the windowsill of our room, there was a row of thorny plants of different shapes and sizes. John cared for them with a special tenderness, which he rarely showed me.
Among all this thorny company, one cactus stood out. Large, with fleshy leaves and long, sharp needles. John called it “General.”
This cactus appeared in our house about three years ago, and my husband always treated it with special affection. Even on business trips, he left me detailed instructions on how to care for it. It was strange, of course, this attachment to a prickly windowsill dweller, but I didn’t think much of it.
People can have all sorts of quirks and passions. That morning, I decided to move the dresser that was against the wall opposite the bed. For several months, I had been obsessed with the idea that it would look much better next to the window.
Perhaps if I move it now, John, upon his return, will appreciate my efforts and won’t object to such changes. I moved the dresser away from the wall and began to slowly move it around the room. It turned out not to be as easy as I thought.
The massive oak furniture yielded with difficulty to my efforts, but I stubbornly pushed it toward my goal. Finally, breathing heavily, I installed the dresser in its new place. Exactly where I wanted it.
Right under the windowsill with the cacti. Taking a few steps back, I critically examined the result of my work. Yes, that’s much better.
The room immediately took on a more harmonious look. But one thing bothered me: the cacti.
Now they were right on top of the dresser, and every time I opened the drawers, I risked touching those thorny plants. I needed to move them. But where? I looked for a suitable place.
I could move them to the living room windowsill, but my violets were already there. There was no room for them in the kitchen either. After some thought, I decided to temporarily place the cacti on a shelf in the hallway.
The light there wasn’t as good as in the bedroom, but it was only temporary. When John returns, we’ll decide together where to put them. Carefully, trying not to prick myself, I began to move the plants, one by one.
The small cacti fit perfectly in the palm of my hand and didn’t give me any trouble. But when it came to the General, I hesitated. This cactus was not only the largest, but also the thorniest.
Also, its clay pot seemed quite heavy. First, I put on gardening gloves to protect my hands from the needles. Then, I carefully grabbed the bottom and lifted it.
It turned out to be much heavier than I expected. As if it weren’t filled with ordinary soil, but with something denser and heavier. Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, I carried the cactus across the room.
Everything was going well until my gaze fell on the photograph on the nightstand. Our wedding photo. John and I, so happy and in love, looking at each other tenderly.
This photo always evokes a warm feeling in me, but lately it was mixed with a slight sadness. Something had changed between us in six years of marriage. The lightness and openness with which we once treated each other were gone.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts, staring at the photograph, that I didn’t notice the corner of the rug I tripped over. The pot slipped from my hands and fell to the floor with a thud. The clay cracked, scattering into several large fragments, the earth spilled out in a shapeless heap, and the poor General fell sideways, losing several of his impressive spires.
Oh, John will be furious. I immediately imagined his disgusted face, his reproaches, perhaps even his icy silence, which was always worse than any words. But there was nothing I could do; I had to fix the situation.
I ran to the kitchen for a dustpan and a brush to collect the scattered soil. When I returned to the bedroom, I knelt in front of the accident site and began carefully raking the dirt over the dustpan. And then my gaze fell on something strange among the clods.
It was a small metallic object that gleamed in the rays of the morning sun. At first, I thought it was just trash that had accidentally gotten into the pot when I repotted the plant. But when I picked it up, I realized it was a key.
A neat little key, similar to the ones you use to open mailboxes or small boxes. Where did I get a key in a cactus pot? I turned it over in my hands, puzzled. Maybe John accidentally dropped it there when he repotted the plant? But if so, why didn’t he take it out? I set the key aside and continued scooping up the soil.
And then my fingers felt something else. This time, it was a small plastic bag, tightly sealed and stained with soil. I carefully cleaned it and held it up to the light.
Inside the bag was a USB flash drive. An ordinary one, black, with no identifying marks. What was it doing in the pot? And why had John hidden it there? Questions plagued me, but there were no answers.
I left the bag with the USB drive next to the key and continued searching the soil, carefully examining each clump. And my efforts weren’t in vain. At the bottom of the pot, almost at the bottom, I found another object.
A small metal box, a little bigger than a matchbox. It was covered in a thin layer of rust, as if it had been lying on the ground for many years. I turned it over in my hands, trying to find the lock.
Sure enough, there was a small hole on one side, perfect for the found key. My heart was pounding. What kind of hiding place had my husband set up in some random cactus pot? What had he been hiding from me all these years? I looked at the little key and then at the box.
Should I open it or not? On the one hand, these were John’s personal belongings, and I had no right to rummage through them without him knowing. On the other hand, why was he keeping something in such a strange place, hiding it from me? There had never been any secrets in our family. At least, that’s what I thought until that moment.
After a moment of hesitation, curiosity won out. I inserted the key into the lock and carefully turned it. The mechanism clicked, and the lid of the box opened slightly.
I held my breath and opened the cover completely. Inside was a thin, tightly rolled piece of paper. I carefully removed it and unfolded it.
It was an old photograph, yellowed with age, its corners curled. It showed a young woman holding a child. The woman smiled at the camera, and the child, still a baby, slept peacefully, pressed against her chest.
I had never seen this woman before. She didn’t look like any of John’s relatives I knew. She had long, dark hair, expressive eyes, and a sad, peculiar smile.
Who was she? And why did John keep her photograph in such a secret place? Turning the photo over, I found an inscription on the back. The faded ink was barely legible, but I was still able to read it. Two lines, written in neat, feminine handwriting.
Sarah and David. Together forever. June 10, 2009.
Sarah? Who’s Sarah? And David? Is that the boy’s name? But what does John have to do with this? Why did he hide this photo? I put the photo back in the box and grabbed the USB drive. Now I wanted to know even more about what was inside. But for that, I needed a computer.
I left the cactus and the soil scattered on the floor and hurried to
