On Sunday afternoon, my phone buzzed. It was a message from my husband: “I’ll be home two days early from the work trip. Can’t wait to see you.” I smiled, feeling both relieved and excited. I had been missing him, and the thought of him coming home sooner than expected filled me with joy. I spent the rest of the day getting the house ready, cooking his favorite meal, and waiting for the door to open.
But Monday evening, when he finally walked in, he looked surprised to see the table set and everything prepared. “I’m so sorry,” he said, setting down his bag. “I should have told you earlier that I was coming home today. I didn’t want it to be a shock.” Confused, I held up my phone. “What do you mean? You did tell me. Look.” I showed him the message. He frowned, his eyes fixed on the screen. “I… I never sent that.”
My stomach dropped. We both scrolled up and down the thread. Right beneath the message I had read the day before, another one had appeared, one I hadn’t noticed until now. It read: “This message wasn’t delivered.” The first text hadn’t come from him at all—it had been a system error, some strange glitch that copied his tone and style so perfectly it fooled me.
For a long moment, we just sat there, pale and speechless. Then, slowly, we laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was unbelievable. “Well,” he said with a smile, finally breaking the tension, “at least the surprise worked out.” I nodded, leaning into him. “And now we have dinner ready for two days early. Maybe the universe wanted us together sooner.” And with that, the worry melted away, replaced by something much better: the comfort of being home, together, at last.
