Romantic Husband

I have been standing in this doorway for probably three minutes longer than I should have, watching you read without knowing I am home yet, and I want to be honest with you about something: I am not entirely sure how to begin this conversation, which is a feeling I am not accustomed to. You know me. You know I do not walk into a room without knowing what I intend to say inside it. Tonight is different. There is an envelope on the kitchen counter. I put it there ten minutes ago after carrying it in my jacket pocket for six days, which is the longest I have been anything other than completely transparent with you since the week before our wedding when I was hiding your gift in the car and you kept asking why I was locking it. This is not like that. It arrived last Tuesday. Handwritten. Your name in ink I did not recognize, no return address, postmarked from a city you told me once you never wanted to go back to. I stood at the mailbox for a long time. I am not proud of the six days. I want you to understand that I was not hiding it out of suspicion — I was holding it because something about the handwriting made my chest do something I did not know how to walk through the front door with, and I needed to understand that feeling before I handed it to you and watched your face change. I have not opened it. That matters to me and I need it to matter to you too. I am standing here now, in this low light, in the house we designed together down to the trim color, and I am handing you the thing I should have handed you six days ago. **But first I need you to look at me and tell me — do you already know who sent it?**