My husband and I bought a box of unclaimed packages expecting cheap gadgets and a few laughs. But the last parcel had Caleb’s full name and the address of our first apartment on it. It had been sent 15 years earlier, and one look at the label made my husband beg me not to open it or touch it.
By the time we reached the bottom of the box, Caleb had claimed a mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST DENTIST despite having absolutely no connection to dentistry.
One look at the label made my husband beg me not to open it or touch it.
“I’m taking this to work,” he announced.
“Why?”
He held it against his chest. “Because people deserve mystery.”
I laughed and tossed another glittery phone case onto the pile between us.
“Because people deserve mystery.”
For almost an hour, our living room looked like a very cheap Christmas morning: avocado socks, charging cables, kitchen gadgets, and a shirt big enough for both of us.
Buying the box had been his idea.
For almost an hour, our living room looked like a very cheap Christmas morning.
For weeks we’d been watching those videos where people bought pallets of undeliverable and warehouse-clearance packages and discovered everything from junk to brand-new electronics.
When we finally ordered one, Caleb picked the local warehouse option because the shipping was cheaper.
I hadn’t given that choice another thought.
Caleb picked the local warehouse option because the shipping was cheaper.
Most of our box had definitely landed on the junk side.
I didn’t care.
After 15 years of marriage, making each other laugh over useless kitchen gadgets counted as a pretty good Friday night.
Then I reached into the cardboard box one last time.
My fingers touched something rough.
I reached into the cardboard box one last time.
“There’s another one.”
Caleb was trying to balance the dentist mug on his forehead.
“Please be a yacht!”
I pulled the package out.
It was smaller than a shoebox, with faded cardboard, yellowed tape, and shipping stickers layered over one another.
One read:
UNDELIVERABLE.
Another had nearly rubbed away.
“There’s another one.”
A much newer barcode was stuck diagonally across the corner, probably from whatever warehouse liquidation had eventually dumped the package into our mystery box.
I turned it over.
Then froze.
“Caleb.”
He lowered the mug.
“What?”
I looked at the label again.
His full name.
I turned it over. Then froze.
Not just Caleb.
Middle initial too.
Underneath it was an address I hadn’t seen written down in years.
Apartment 3B.
The tiny one-bedroom where we’d lived during the first year of our marriage.
“Caleb… this is yours.”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
“Caleb… this is yours.”
Then the mug slipped from his hand and landed on the couch cushion.
He stood.
“Where did you get that?”
“From the box we’ve been opening for the last hour.”
“No. Dolly, give it to me.”
He didn’t even sound like himself.
I hugged the parcel closer.
“What’s wrong?”
“From the box we’ve been opening for the last hour.”
He crossed the room.
“Please…”
***
I’d known Caleb almost 17 years. I’d seen him angry, sick, drunk, terrified, and grieving.
I’d never seen him look at anything the way he looked at that package.
Like it had arrived 15 years late specifically to ruin his night.
I’d never seen him look at anything the way he looked at that package.
Naturally, my imagination became unhelpful.
“What is this?” I demanded.
“Nothing.”
I looked down at the parcel.
“Nothing mailed itself to my husband during our first year of marriage?”
“Dolly.”
“Was it from somebody?”
He reached for it.
I stepped back.
“Who?”
“Nothing mailed itself to my husband during our first year of marriage?”
His face fell, his eyes darting away like he’d just been caught.
That frightened me more.
“Just don’t open it, Dolly.”
I stared at him.
Then I made a joke.
“What, is there a secret wife folded up in here?”
He didn’t smile.
That killed the joke instantly.
“Caleb.”
“Please, Dolly.”
“What, is there a secret wife folded up in here?”
“Why?”
He pressed both hands against his face for a moment.
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right. Because you won’t tell me.”
“I will.”
“When?”
He looked at the package.
And that tiny hesitation did it.
I stared at Caleb, then at the old address on the label.
“You don’t understand.”
I turned and walked toward the hallway.
“Dolly, stop.”
I kept going.
“Seriously. Don’t do this.”
I reached the bathroom.
He followed.
I slipped inside and locked the door.
“Dolly!”
My hands were shaking enough that peeling the old tape became awkward.
“Open the door.”
“Seriously. Don’t do this.”
“Tell me what’s in it.”
Silence.
I tore through the tape.
“Dolly, please don’t…”
I opened the box.
Brown tissue paper.
Something black underneath.
For one ridiculous second, I expected something belonging to another woman.
Instead, I pulled out a man’s dress shoe.
I expected something belonging to another woman.
Black leather.
Old-fashioned.
Carefully polished.
A second shoe rested beneath it.
Both had clearly been repaired. The leather was creased deeply around the toes, and one sole looked newer than the other.
I sat on the closed toilet lid.
“Caleb?”
No answer.
I opened the bathroom door.
Both had clearly been repaired.
He was sitting on the hallway floor with his back against the wall.
His eyes went straight to the shoes in my hands.
“Whose are these?” I asked.
He rubbed his palms over his jeans.
“Mine.”
“I’ve never seen them.”
“I know.”
His eyes went straight to the shoes in my hands.
“You begged me not to open a box containing…. your own shoes?”
