My husband Caleb and I bought a box of unclaimed packages expecting cheap gadgets and a few laughs.

For the most part, that’s exactly what we got.

There were avocado socks, charging cables, kitchen gadgets, and a ridiculous mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST DENTIST.

Then, at the very bottom of the box, I found one last package.

It was small, covered in faded tape and old shipping labels.

I turned it over.

Then froze.

“Caleb.”

His full name was on the label.

And underneath it was an address I hadn’t seen in fifteen years.

Apartment 3B.

The tiny apartment where we’d lived during our first year of marriage.

“Caleb… this is yours.”

He went completely still.

“Where did you get that?”

“From the box.”

“Give it to me, Dolly.”

His voice frightened me.

I pulled it closer.

“What’s wrong?”

“Please don’t open it.”

I’d known Caleb for almost seventeen years. I’d seen him angry, sick, terrified, and grieving.

I’d never seen him look at anything the way he looked at that package.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing mailed itself to my husband fifteen years ago?”

He reached for it.

I stepped back.

“Was it from somebody?”

He looked away.

That scared me more.

“Just don’t open it.”

I tried to joke.

“What, is there a secret wife folded up inside?”

He didn’t smile.

I locked myself in the bathroom and tore open the package.

Inside was a pair of old black dress shoes.

I opened the door.

Caleb was sitting on the hallway floor.

“Whose are these?”

“Mine.”

“I’ve never seen them.”

“I know.”

“You begged me not to open a box containing your own shoes?”

He looked at them.

“Those are the shoes I wore during four months of our marriage. The four months when I never told you the truth.”

“What truth?”

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Instead of answering, he picked up the shoes.

“Get your coat.”

Ten minutes later, we were driving toward our old neighborhood.

He stopped beside an old bus shelter.

“This is where I used to eat lunch.”

I frowned.

“Your office was twenty minutes away.”

“I wasn’t working there anymore.”

He finally told me.

Three months after we got married, he’d lost his job.

He’d been unemployed for almost four months.

Every morning, he’d dressed as if he were going to work, then spent the day at libraries, employment centers, interviews, and anywhere else he might find a job.

“You lost your job and didn’t tell me?”

“I was scared.”

He admitted there had been a time when we had only twelve dollars until payday.

I remembered the lunches he’d told me his company provided.

“There was no free lunch, Dolly.”

“Then what did you eat?”

“Whatever I could afford.”

“Sometimes nothing.”

I felt sick.

Then another memory returned.

One night, I’d made chicken Parmesan. Caleb came home late, barely touched it, and told me he’d already eaten with coworkers.

“You hadn’t eaten with coworkers,” I whispered.

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“Walking between two interviews and a temp agency.”

For fifteen years, I’d remembered that night as one kind of marriage.

Now I saw it differently.

“There are more things I lied about,” Caleb said.

“How many?”

“Enough.”

Then he took me to a small shoe-repair shop.

An older man behind the counter recognized him immediately.

“Walking man.”

Caleb laughed.

The man looked at the shoes.

“Those finally found you?”

Caleb explained that one of the shoes had split just before an interview fifteen years earlier. He’d barely had enough money for the bus, but the shop owner, Martin, repaired it anyway.

“When you get a job, come back.”

Caleb eventually found work.

He returned, paid Martin, and had both shoes restored.

He’d planned to wear them on our anniversary.

“And tell you everything,” he admitted.

“But you didn’t.”

“We moved before the shoes were delivered. They were sent to our old apartment, marked undeliverable, and eventually disappeared into the warehouse system.”

The same warehouse where we’d unknowingly bought our mystery box.

“You needed shoes to tell your wife?”

“No.”

He looked down.

“I needed an excuse to start.”

Then he admitted that when the shoes disappeared, he let losing that excuse become another excuse.

On the walk back, I asked, “What did you think would’ve happened if you’d told me?”

“You would’ve worried.”

“I would’ve worried with you.”

For the first time that night, he had no answer.

Then I asked, “Is there anything you’re afraid to tell me now?”

He hesitated.

“My department’s being reorganized. There may be cuts.”

“How long have you known?”

“A week.”

I almost laughed.

“Fifteen years, and we’re still doing this?”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Then try out loud.”

He smiled.

Later, at a diner, his phone buzzed.

A work email.

His old instinct kicked in. He turned the phone facedown.

Then he looked at me.

“It’s about the restructuring.”

“Okay.”

He opened it.

We read it together.

Nothing had been decided yet.

For once, that was enough.

Outside, Caleb put on the old restored shoes and immediately started limping.

“These things are terrible,” he said, laughing.

I held out my arm.

Fifteen years earlier, those shoes had carried my husband through something he believed he had to survive alone.

That night, he finally let somebody walk beside him.