I Forgot to Tell My Husband the Security Camera Was Fixed Before My Business Trip

Then, about three weeks before my most recent trip, Daniel mentioned the camera had stopped working.

“I think it’s the connection,” he said one evening, poking at it with a screwdriver. “Or maybe the lens is damaged. I don’t know. I’m not a tech guy.”

“Should we call the company?” I asked.

“Nah, I’ll just take it in to that repair shop on Clark Street,” he said. “They fix these things. Probably just needs a new part or something.”

“Do you want me to do it? I can drop it off on my way to work.”

“No, no, I’ve got it,” he insisted. “You’re busy enough. I’ll take care of it.”

A few days later, he mentioned he’d dropped it off.

“They said it might take a couple weeks,” he told me. “Some part needs to be ordered. No big deal.”

I shrugged. We’d lived without a camera before. Two weeks without one wouldn’t kill us.

But then my boss called with the trip details—two weeks visiting clinics in Iowa and Nebraska, training a new sales team, attending a regional conference in Omaha.

“You leave Monday,” my boss said. “I’m sending you the itinerary.”

That was a week earlier than I’d expected, but I didn’t argue. You don’t argue with your boss when you’re gunning for a promotion.

The weekend before I left was busy—laundry, packing, meal prepping a few things for Daniel so he wouldn’t live on takeout the entire time I was gone. He hated cooking and had a tendency to order pizza three nights in a row if left to his own devices.

On Sunday afternoon, I remembered the camera.

On a whim, I decided to stop by the repair shop on Clark Street to check on the status, thinking maybe I could pick it up before I left so Daniel wouldn’t have to deal with it.

The shop was a small, cramped space that smelled like solder and old electronics. A technician with thick glasses looked up from a circuit board when I walked in.

“Can I help you?”

“My husband dropped off a security camera about a week ago,” I said. “Just wanted to check on the status.”

He frowned. “What’s the name?”

“Daniel Pritchard.”

He typed something into an ancient-looking computer, squinting at the screen.

“Oh yeah, I remember that one. Small living room camera, right? Connection issue?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, we fixed that days ago,” he said. “Took like an hour. Just a loose wire. Super simple fix.”

I blinked. “Wait, you fixed it already?”

“Yeah, last Monday. It’s been ready for pickup all week.”

My stomach did a strange little flip. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I did it myself.” He rummaged around behind the counter and pulled out a small box with our name on it. “See? Right here. Been sitting here waiting.”

I stared at the box.