My husband went on a business trip to another city for a month, and I decided to move his favorite cactus in a pot to another place, but accidentally broke it while carrying it. My hair stood on end from what I saw inside…

My husband went on a business trip to another city for a month, and I decided to move his favorite cactus in a pot to another place, but accidentally broke it while carrying it. But what I discovered in the broken pot forever changed my life. How strange that our lives can be changed by completely random events.

Ordinary, almost insignificant little things suddenly turn everything upside down, and after that nothing remains the same. For me, such a turning point was an ordinary cactus. Probably, I should start my story with that.

It was early Saturday morning. The spring sun flooded our apartment with soft, golden light. My husband John had gone on a whole month business trip to New York.

He worked in a large construction company, and such long absences happened often. I was already used to his absence, although, of course, I always missed him, taking advantage of the fact that I was left alone in the apartment, I decided to do a small rearrangement of furniture. I had long wanted to change the interior a bit, refresh the atmosphere, but John was a conservative and liked everything to stay in its place.

He was especially reverent about his collection of cacti, which he had been collecting for several years. On the windowsill in our bedroom stood a whole line of prickly plants of different shapes and sizes. John cared for them with some special tenderness, which he rarely showed towards me.

Among all this prickly company, one cactus stood out. Large, with fleshy leaves and sharp, long needles. John called it «General».

This cactus appeared in our house about three years ago, and my husband always treated it with special attention. Even when going on business trips, he left me detailed instructions on how to care for this particular plant. It was strange, of course, such an attachment to a prickly inhabitant of the windowsill, but I didn’t attach much importance to it.

People can have all sorts of quirks and passions. That morning I decided to move the chest of drawers that stood against the wall opposite the bed. For several months I had been haunted by the thought that it would look much better by the window.

Perhaps if I move it now, John, upon returning, will appreciate my efforts and won’t object to such changes. I pushed the chest of drawers away from the wall and began to slowly move it across the room. It turned out to be not as easy as I thought.

The massive oak furniture yielded to my efforts with difficulty, but I stubbornly pushed it towards the intended goal. Finally, breathing heavily, I installed the chest of drawers in the new place. Right where I wanted.

Right under the windowsill with the cacti. Stepping back a few steps, I critically examined the result of my labors. Yes, that’s much better.

The room immediately acquired a more harmonious look. But something bothered me. The cacti.

Now they stood right above the chest of drawers, and every time I opened the drawers, I risked touching these prickly plants. I needed to move them. But where? I looked around, searching for a suitable place.

I could move them to the windowsill in the living room, but my violets were already there. There was no place for them in the kitchen either. After a short deliberation, I decided to temporarily place the cacti on a shelf in the hallway.

The light there wasn’t as good as in the bedroom, but it was only temporary. When John returns, we’ll decide together where they should be. Carefully, trying not to prick myself, I began to move the plants, one by one.

The small cacti fit easily in my palm, and there were no problems with them. But when it came to the General, I hesitated. This cactus was not only the largest, but also the prickliest.

Moreover, its clay pot looked quite heavy. First, I put on gardening gloves to protect my hands from the needles. Then I carefully grasped the pot from the bottom and lifted it.

It really turned out to be much heavier than I expected. As if it was filled not with ordinary soil, but with something denser and weightier. Slowly, trying not to make sudden movements, I carried the cactus across the room.

Everything was going well until my gaze fell on the photograph standing on the bedside table. Our wedding photo. John and I, so happy and in love, looking at each other with tenderness.

This photo always evoked a warm feeling in me, but lately a slight sadness mixed in with it. Something had changed between us in six years of marriage. The lightness and openness with which we once treated each other had disappeared.

I was so lost in thought, looking at the photograph, that I didn’t notice the corner of the rug, which I tripped over. The pot slipped out of my hands and hit the floor with a dull sound. The clay cracked, scattering into several large shards, the soil spilled out in a shapeless heap, and the poor General fell on its side, losing several of its impressive needles.

Oh, John will be furious. I immediately imagined his displeased face, reproaches, maybe even cold silence, which was always worse than any words. But there was nothing to do, I had to fix the situation.

I ran to the kitchen for a dustpan and brush to collect the scattered soil. Returning to the bedroom, I knelt down in front of the scene of the accident and began to carefully rake the soil onto the dustpan. And then my gaze fell on something strange among the clods of soil.

It was a small metal object, glistening in the rays of the morning sun. At first I thought it was just some trash that accidentally got into the pot when repotting the plant. But when I took it in my hands, I realized it was a key.

A small, neat key, similar to those used to open mailboxes or small boxes. Where did a key come from in a cactus pot? I twirled it in my hands in bewilderment. Maybe John accidentally dropped it there when repotting the plant? But if so, why didn’t he get it out? I set the key aside and continued collecting the soil.

And then my fingers felt something else. This time, it was a small plastic bag, tightly sealed and smeared with soil. I carefully cleaned it and held it up to the light.

Inside the bag was a flash drive. The most ordinary, black, without any identification marks. What was it doing in the cactus pot? And why did John hide it there? Questions swarmed in my head, but there were no answers.

I set the bag with the flash drive next to the key and continued to sort through the soil, now carefully examining every clump. And my efforts were not in vain. At the very bottom of the pot, almost at the bottom, I found another object.

A small metal box, slightly larger than a matchbox. It was covered with a thin layer of rust, as if it had lain in the ground for many years. I twirled it in my hands, trying to find the keyhole.

And indeed, on one side there was a tiny hole, perfectly suited for the found key. My heart beat faster. What kind of cache had my husband set up in an ordinary cactus pot? What had he been hiding from me all these years? I looked at the small key, then at the box.

Open it or not? On the one hand, these were John’s personal things, and I had no right to rummage through them without his knowledge. On the other hand, why did he keep something in such a strange place, obviously hiding it from me? In our family, there had never been secrets from each other. At least, that’s what I thought until this moment.

After a moment’s hesitation, curiosity won. I inserted the key into the keyhole and carefully turned it. The mechanism clicked, and the lid of the box opened slightly.

I held my breath and flipped the lid open completely. Inside lay a tightly rolled thin paper. I carefully pulled it out and unfolded it.

It was an old photograph, yellowed with time, with curled corners. It depicted a young woman with a child in her arms. The woman was smiling at the camera, and the child, still an infant, slept peacefully, pressed against her chest.

I had never seen this woman before. She didn’t look like any of John’s relatives that I knew. She had long dark hair, expressive eyes, and some special, sad smile.

Who was she? And why did John keep her photograph in such a secret place? Turning the picture over, I found an inscription on the back. The faded ink was barely legible, but I still managed to read it. Two lines, written in neat feminine handwriting.

Sarah and David. Together forever. June 10, 2009.

Sarah? Who is Sarah? And David? Is that the child’s name? But what does John have to do with it? Why did he keep this photograph in a cache? I put the picture back in the box and picked up the flash drive. Now I wanted even more to know what was on it. But for that, I needed a computer.

Leaving the cactus and the scattered soil on the floor, I hurried to the living room, where our laptop stood. My hands trembled a little as I turned it on and inserted the flash drive into the USB port. A window with the contents of the drive appeared on the screen.

Several folders with incomprehensible names. Numbers, letters, no hint of their contents. I opened the first folder.

Inside were PDF documents. I clicked on the first one, and a scanned passport appeared on the screen. Not mine and not John’s.

The passport was issued to David Miller. Date of birth. June 10, 2009.

The same day that was indicated on the photograph. The next document was the birth certificate of this same David. Mother.

Sarah Miller. And the father’s name made me freeze in place. Father….