When I arrived home early from work unexpectedly, I was ready to unwind. Instead, I nearly fainted. I sensed someone in the house—or rather, something—from the strange sounds coming from the basement. Clutching a candlestick, I crept downstairs, every step unsteady. That’s when I saw Peter, my ex-husband, hunched over a hidden hatch, crowbar in hand.
My shock turned to fury. He spun around, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know you were here,” he stammered. I raised my phone, thumb hovering—911 was next if he didn’t explain.
With pleading eyes, he confessed: our grandfather had phoned him—claiming there was a family treasure hidden under the house—and asked Peter to “take care of it.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. My grandfather? Treasure? It sounded ludicrous.
Peter tried to excuse the intrusion—said he didn’t break in, he still had a key from when we were married. That revelation stung like a betrayal. I demanded the key. He handed it over, shame in his eyes. “Get out,” I said, fighting tears. “And don’t ever come back.” He left quietly.
I forced myself to inspect the hatch. With the crowbar still there, I lifted it—expecting something dramatic. Instead, I found only plumbing pipes. No treasure. I laughed, half-relieved, half-disbelieving.
Needing answers, I drove straight to my grandfather’s nursing home. He grinned mischievously when I asked about the “treasure.” It was a test—he had made it up to see if Peter was still trustworthy. “Sometimes people don’t change,” he gently told me.
