The bouquet arrived in the middle of the afternoon, a dozen red roses in a crystal vase. My coworkers gasped, teasing me as the delivery man set them on my desk. “Someone’s romantic!” they said. I smiled, heat rushing to my cheeks, because after everything my husband and I had been through lately—the late nights, the distance, the arguments—I thought maybe this was his way of reminding me that we were still us. But when I opened the little white envelope tucked inside, my world tilted. It didn’t say my name. It said hers. “Forever yours, Daniel.”
I read it three times, hoping I was mistaken, hoping my brain was short-circuiting. But the handwriting was his, the signature was his. The flowers were for her, delivered to me.
The laughter of my coworkers faded into white noise. I shoved the card into my purse, plastered on a fake smile, and pretended to be touched. “He’s always been thoughtful,” I lied, my voice cracking. They didn’t notice, but I could feel the blood drain from my face.
Back when we first met, he sent me flowers all the time. Daisies after our first date, lilies when I got a promotion, roses the night he proposed. Flowers were his language of love, his way of saying what he couldn’t put into words. That’s why this hurt so deeply. Flowers weren’t random for him. They meant something.
That evening, when I walked into our kitchen, the vase still in my arms, I set it down hard enough to make the stems quiver. “Who’s Claire?” I demanded.
He froze, mid-bite of his dinner. “What?”
I pulled the card from my purse and slid it across the table. His face went white.
“I—I can explain,” he stammered, but the explanation didn’t come quickly enough.
“You sent me roses. With a note meant for her,” I snapped. My hands shook, my chest tight. “You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you?”
He buried his face in his hands, groaning. “It was a mistake. I mixed up the addresses.”
“So it’s true,” I whispered, my throat closing. “You’re with someone else.”
“She doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted, reaching for me, but I recoiled. “It’s not serious. I swear, you’re the one I love. I just—”
“Just what?” I cut him off. “Just couldn’t stay faithful? Just couldn’t keep your promises? You signed it ‘Forever yours.’ That’s not nothing, Daniel.”
His silence said more than his excuses ever could.
That night, I slept on the couch, the roses wilting slowly in their vase. By morning, their scent filled the kitchen, sweet and suffocating, like a cruel reminder of what I’d lost.
Days passed, and the truth spilled out in pieces. It had been going on for months. A woman from work. Late nights weren’t late nights at the office—they were stolen hours with her. The roses were supposed to celebrate some milestone she’d achieved. He meant them for her, not me.
I threw them out that week, the vase shattering against the dumpster wall as I let out a sob I didn’t know I’d been holding. Watching the petals scatter across the pavement felt like watching our marriage disintegrate.
In the end, I left him. Because love that needs to be proven through lies and misplaced gestures isn’t love at all—it’s cowardice wrapped in roses.
Final Thought
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come in screaming fights or slammed doors. Sometimes it comes in a bouquet of roses, in words written on a card that wasn’t meant for you. Flowers are supposed to mean devotion, but his meant deceit. And while I once believed roses were a symbol of love, I now know they can also be the thorns that pierce the truth wide open.
