Two weeks later, karma arrived at our door.

When she mentioned it, her eyes lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in years. She talked about old friends, teachers she admired, the version of herself she used to be—confident, ambitious, full of plans.

And I ruined it.

“You’ll embarrass yourself,” I said without even looking up from my phone. “You’re just a stay-at-home mom now.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I saw something in her face fall. Not anger. Not tears.

Just quiet.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t yell. She simply nodded and said, “Okay.”

She didn’t go to the reunion.

For days, she barely spoke to me. The house felt colder, even though nothing obvious had changed. She still packed lunches. Still helped with homework. Still said goodnight.

But something between us had shifted.

Two weeks later, a heavy box arrived addressed to her.

She was upstairs putting the kids to bed, so I brought it inside. It was surprisingly heavy. There was a return address from a company I didn’t recognize.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I opened it.

Inside were dozens of copies of a hardcover book.

Her name was on the cover.

I felt my stomach drop.

I picked one up with trembling hands. It was a novel. Professionally published. Beautiful cover design. Inside the first page was a dedication:

“To the woman I used to be, and the woman I never stopped becoming.”

My wife had written a book.

As I stood there stunned, I heard her footsteps behind me.

“You opened it,” she said quietly.