Renewed Vows in Crisis

The emerald dress Sterling bought me last Christmas clung to my curves as I sat alone at our favorite table, watching other couples clink glasses and whisper sweet nothings across candlelit tables. My fingers traced the stem of my wine glass, the vintage watch I'd spent weeks selecting for him wrapped neatly beside my plate.

Five years. Five perfect years of marriage, and he'd promised tonight would be special.

"He'll be here any minute," I whispered to myself, checking my phone again. No calls. No texts. The screen showed 9:47 PM—two hours and seventeen minutes past our reservation time.

A waiter approached with practiced sympathy. "Mrs. Marshall, would you like to order? Or perhaps wait a little longer?"

"I'll wait," I said, straightening my spine. "He's just... tied up at work."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. Sterling hadn't been "tied up at work" on our anniversary before. Not once.

Across the room, a woman in her fifties leaned toward her companion. "Poor thing," she murmured, not quite quietly enough. "Third time this week I've seen her eating alone here."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I hadn't realized I'd become a spectacle—the pitiful wife waiting for a husband who clearly had better things to do.

My phone remained stubbornly silent as minutes stretched into another hour. The restaurant emptied around me until only the staff remained, exchanging glances that said they'd seen this story play out too many times before.

"Mrs. Marshall," the manager approached with gentle firmness. "We're closing now."

I gathered my purse and the watch box, humiliation burning through me like acid. "He must have forgotten," I said, the words hollow even to my own ears.

Outside, rain pelted the sidewalk, matching the tears I refused to let fall. Sterling had never been late without calling. Never missed an important date. Something was wrong—or worse, something had changed.

---

"Flight 247 to Seattle now boarding," the gate agent announced.

I hadn't planned this trip. But after a sleepless night pacing our apartment, calling Sterling's office and friends until my voice grew hoarse, I'd done the only thing that made sense—booked an emergency flight to my parents' home in Seattle.

They would know what to do. Mom would make tea and listen while Dad grumbled about Sterling's unprofessional behavior. They'd help me figure out what to do next.

The plane taxied down the runway as I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass. Sterling's assistant had claimed he was "unavailable" when I called this morning. Unavailable? On what planet was my husband so important he couldn't return his wife's calls?

"Miss?" A flight attendant touched my shoulder. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you." I clutched my seatbelt as the plane lifted into gray clouds. The turbulence started almost immediately—small bumps that grew into violent shakes.

"Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened," the captain's voice crackled over the intercom. "We're experiencing moderate turbulence."

Moderate? The word seemed inadequate as the plane dropped suddenly, sending my stomach lurching toward my throat. Around me, passengers gasped and clutched armrests.

"We're declaring an emergency," the captain announced minutes later. "Crew, prepare for emergency landing procedures."

Panic surged through me. This couldn't be happening—not today, not when everything else was already falling apart.

The descent was terrifying—steep and bumpy, with oxygen masks dangling uselessly above us. When we finally touched down with a jarring thud, applause broke out in the cabin.

"That was intense," the woman beside me said, pressing a hand to her chest.

I nodded numbly, my mind already racing ahead to what awaited me in Seattle. Mom's hug. Dad's gruff advice. The familiar comfort of home.

But as I stepped into the terminal, something felt wrong. The architecture seemed different—sharper edges, brighter colors. Travelers tapped at devices I didn't recognize, speaking into thin air with tiny earbuds.

"Excuse me," I approached an airport employee. "What's the date today?"

She looked at me strangely. "October 15th, 2028."

My blood turned to ice. "What year did you say?"

"2028," she repeated slowly. "Is everything okay?"

I fumbled for my phone with trembling hands. The screen showed the same impossible date. Ten years. Somehow, I'd lost ten years.

With shaking fingers, I dialed my parents' number. Disconnected. Sterling's cell. Also disconnected.

A taxi driver helped me with my luggage, chatting amiably as we drove toward my childhood home. "You're lucky we're not too busy today," he said. "Traffic's been terrible since they redesigned the highway."

The neighborhood looked both familiar and strange—newer cars, different storefronts. When we pulled up to the house where I'd grown up, I barely recognized it with its updated facade and unfamiliar landscaping.

"Is this 1725 Maple Street?" I asked, though I knew it was.

"That's the address," the driver confirmed.

I approached the front door on legs that felt like water, ringing the bell with a sense of dread building in my chest.

A woman I'd never seen before answered. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Robert and Carol Hart," I said. "This is their house."

Something like pity crossed her face. "Oh, honey... you must be family. I'm so sorry—they died eight years ago. Car accident on Highway 101."

The world tilted beneath my feet as her words registered. My parents were dead. Had been dead for eight years.

In a timeline where I was completely, utterly alone.