Shirley Peterson has been married to Gene for 47 years, and she knows his routines like the back of her hand. He’s up at 6 a.m. every day to make coffee (strong, black, no sugar), leaves for his job at the hardware store by 7:30, and is home by 5:15 sharp—usually with a pack of her favorite lemon drops in his pocket. So when Gene started coming home at 7, then 8, then 9 p.m. two months ago, Shirley’s first thought was: He’s hiding something.
At first, she told herself it was work. The hardware store had just gotten a new shipment of lawnmowers, after all—maybe he was staying late to stock shelves. But then she noticed the little things: he’d change his shirt before walking in the door, even if it didn’t look dirty; he’d check his phone the second he got in the car, then tuck it away when she was around; he’d mumble something about “inventory” when she asked, but his eyes would dart to the floor—something Gene never did when he was telling the truth.
Shirley didn’t want to be that wife—the one who snooped, who asked a million questions, who jumped to conclusions. But 47 years of marriage doesn’t erase the fear that creeps in when someone you love starts acting like a stranger. She’d catch herself staring at him across the dinner table, wondering if he was thinking about someone else, or if he’d grown tired of their quiet nights in front of the TV, or if he just didn’t want to be home anymore.
One night, after Gene came home at 8:30 (with no lemon drops—that was the final straw), Shirley decided to ask. She’d been reheating his meatloaf for the third time, and when he walked in, she set the plate down and said, “Gene, we need to talk.” He froze in the doorway, his jacket still on. “What’s wrong?” he said. Shirley took a deep breath. “Why are you working so late? And don’t say inventory—your boss told me last week they finished inventory two weeks ago.”
Gene’s face turned red. He sat down at the table, ran his hand through his gray hair, and stared at his plate. Shirley’s heart sank. This was it, she thought—he was going to tell her he wanted a divorce, or that he’d met someone, or that he just couldn’t do this anymore.
Instead, he said, “I’ve been going to the community center. To the woodworking class.” Shirley blinked. “Woodworking class?” she said. “You hate woodworking. You tried to build a birdhouse for the grandkids last year and nailed your thumb to the board.” Gene laughed—a quiet, sheepish laugh. “I know,” he said. “But Mr. Henderson from down the street told me they have a class for beginners. I… I wanted to make something for you. For our 47th anniversary.”
Shirley’s mouth dropped. “You’ve been staying late to take a woodworking class? Not… not anything else?” Gene shook his head. “No, honey. I just didn’t want you to see it until it was done. I wanted it to be a surprise.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. On the screen was a photo of a small wooden box—stained dark brown, with a little brass latch. “It’s a memory box,” he said. “For all the little things we’ve saved over the years: the ticket stubs from our first date, the hospital bracelet from when our son was born, the note you left me when you went to visit your sister last year. I’ve been working on it every night. I wanted it to be perfect.”
Shirley looked at the photo, then at Gene, and felt tears well up in her eyes. She’d spent weeks worrying about the worst, and it turned out he’d been doing something sweet—something that took time, and patience, and a whole lot of band-aids (he admitted he’d nailed his thumb again the first week). “Why didn’t you just tell me?” she said, laughing through her tears. Gene shrugged. “I wanted it to be a surprise. And I was embarrassed—what if I messed it up? What if you thought it was stupid?”
Shirley took his hand. “Gene Peterson, you could build me a box out of cereal boxes and I’d love it. Because you made it. For me.” She leaned over and kissed him. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I just… I didn’t know what to think when you started staying late.” Gene squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry I made you worry. I should have told you. I just got so caught up in the surprise, I didn’t think about how it would look.”
The next night, Shirley went with Gene to the woodworking class. She sat in the back, watching him sand the box, his glasses sliding down his nose, and smiled. The other men in the class—all older, all beginners—teased him about “making something for the missus,” but Gene just grinned and kept sanding. When they got home, he pulled the box out of his bag (it was almost done—just needed one more coat of stain) and set it on the coffee table. Shirley opened it and found a little note inside: “To my Shirley. 47 years, and you’re still the best thing that ever happened to me. Here’s to 47 more years of making memories to put in this box.”
Over the next few weeks, they filled the box together. Shirley added the pressed flower from their wedding bouquet (she’d kept it in a book for 47 years), and Gene added the golf ball he’d hit on their first vacation together (it landed in a lake, but he’d jumped in to get it). They laughed as they went through old photos, and cried a little when they found the card their daughter had made them when she was 5: “I love Mommy and Daddy the mostest.”
Shirley still teases Gene about the woodworking class. She calls him “her little carpenter” and asks when he’s going to build her a new bookshelf. But she’s also grateful—grateful that he cared enough to try something new, grateful that he wanted to make their anniversary special, and grateful that she’d finally asked him what was going on instead of letting her worry get the best of her.
A few months later, at their book club, Shirley told the girls about Gene’s woodworking class. “You should all talk to your husbands,” she said. “Sometimes when they’re acting weird, it’s not because they’re hiding something bad—it’s because they’re trying to do something good. They just don’t know how to say it.”
One of the girls, Martha, went home and asked her husband, Frank, why he’d been staying late at the library. Turns out, he’d been taking a computer class—so he could learn how to video chat with their grandson, who lived in California. “I didn’t want you to know I didn’t know how to use Zoom,” he told her. “I felt silly.” Martha laughed and hugged him. “Silly is good,” she said. “Next time, let’s be silly together.”
Shirley heard about it and smiled. She thought about Gene, sitting next to her on the couch, the memory box on the coffee table between them. They’d had their share of hard times over 47 years—sickness, job losses, arguments about who left the milk out—but the good times? The times when Gene stayed late to build her a box, or when she made his favorite meatloaf even though he’d come home late? Those were the times that mattered.
That night, Shirley wrote a new note and put it in the memory box: “To Gene. Thank you for the surprise, for the woodworking class, and for being the kind of man who worries about making me happy. I love you more than ever.” She closed the box and looked at Gene, who was watching TV. “You know,” she said, “maybe next year, we can take a class together. Cooking? Or painting?” Gene smiled. “Whatever you want, honey,” he said. “Whatever you want.”
And somewhere, in that little wooden box, their next memory was already waiting to be made.