My husband, Duncan, and I had spent fifteen years building a life wrapped in routines—two kids, a mortgage, and the rhythm of shared dinners and reruns. It wasn’t exciting, but it was safe. Predictable.

That’s why I never expected our toilet to be the thing that would blow it all apart.

It began innocently enough. The main bathroom toilet was sluggish, barely refilling after each flush. I mentioned it casually, expecting Duncan to fix it. He muttered, “I’ll check it out,” without glancing up from his phone.

Days passed. Then a week.

“If you’re not going to fix it, I will,” I said after brushing my teeth one night. He barely looked up, donut in hand. “Better not mess with it,” he warned. “It’s hanging on by a thread.”

The way he said it—too fast, too tight—set something off inside me. It wasn’t just disinterest. It was discomfort.

I started watching. Duncan avoided that bathroom entirely. The very mention of it shifted his tone. I didn’t want to become suspicious, but I couldn’t ignore my instincts.

So one afternoon, with the house empty, I stood before the toilet and lifted the lid.

There, wedged where the fill valve should’ve been, was a black vacuum-sealed package. My breath caught. My heart thundered.

It took effort to pry it loose. Cold water soaked my sleeves, but I barely noticed. I placed the dripping bundle on a towel and slit it open.