When the delivery man walked into the office carrying a bouquet of long-stemmed roses, every head turned. My coworkers let out a chorus of teasing “oooohs” as he stopped at my desk. The flowers were stunning, vibrant, fragrant—forty-eight crimson petals bound in silk ribbon. My cheeks burned, but inside, I was glowing. Mark had remembered. Our anniversary.
I signed for them, tucking the little white envelope into my hand. The others leaned in, waiting for me to read the note out loud. I smiled, nerves buzzing, and opened it. But the second my eyes landed on the words, my heart dropped.
“Happy anniversary, Sunshine. I love you always. —M.”
Sunshine.
That wasn’t my nickname.
It was my sister’s.
I froze, my smile plastered in place while my insides unraveled. My coworkers clapped, returning to their desks, none the wiser. But I sat there, clutching the card, my fingers trembling. Sunshine. I hadn’t heard him say it in years—not since the barbecue where he’d first met my sister, Emily. He had called her Sunshine then, laughing at the way her laugh could light up a room. I remembered brushing it off, thinking it was harmless.
Now, staring at the roses on my desk, the word felt like a knife.
That night, I set the vase down on the kitchen table, the roses looking more like evidence than a gift. Mark walked in, loosened his tie, and smiled. “You got them? Do you like them?”
I held up the card. “Who are these for?”
His smile faltered. “You. Who else?”
“Really?” My voice cracked. “Then why does it say Sunshine?”
He blinked, his throat bobbing. “It’s just a word. A slip.”
“A slip?” I spat, anger rising. “You don’t ‘slip’ and use my sister’s nickname in an anniversary card. Do you know how insane that sounds?”
His face flushed red, and for the first time in years, he couldn’t look me in the eye. That silence told me everything I needed to know.
I thought back to all the little things I had brushed off: the way he always asked if Emily would be joining us at family dinners, how his gaze lingered a second too long when she smiled, how he remembered her favorite wine but sometimes forgot mine. They weren’t small things anymore. They were puzzle pieces snapping into place.
“Tell me the truth,” I said, my voice shaking. “Is there something going on between you and her?”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “No. No, of course not. I love you. You’re my wife.”
“Then why can’t you say her name without flinching?”
He froze. And that was all the answer I needed.
I confronted Emily the next day. She opened the door with her usual bright smile, but it faltered when she saw my face. I held up the card. “Why does he still call you this?”
Her expression crumbled, guilt flashing in her eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
My chest tightened. “Say it isn’t true.”
She looked away. And in her silence, my world collapsed.
We stood there, two sisters, a lifetime of shared secrets and childhood memories between us, and in that moment, I realized she had stolen something I thought was untouchable. Not just my husband, but my trust, my safety, my belief in blood being stronger than temptation.
I walked away without another word, leaving her in the doorway with her necklace glinting in the sun—the one he had given her, I now realized, on a day I thought he was working late.
Final Thought
Flowers wilt, but betrayal lasts forever. That card was supposed to celebrate our love, but instead it exposed the lie at its center. Sometimes the smallest slip—a word, a nickname—is enough to unravel everything you thought was yours.
