The bouquet arrived on a Tuesday morning, a massive arrangement of red roses so big the delivery man had to balance it with both arms. My coworkers gathered around, oohing and ahhing, their voices teasing. “Someone’s in love with you,” one of them joked, nudging me playfully. My heart swelled, because of course I assumed it was from David. He’d been my husband for six years, and though romance had faded in recent months, I told myself maybe he was trying again. Maybe this was his way of reminding me I still mattered.
I set the roses on my desk, their scent overwhelming, rich and sweet. My hands trembled as I untied the envelope tucked neatly into the bouquet. I smiled, ready to read the familiar words—I love you, or to my beautiful wife. But when I opened it, my smile froze. The note read: “Forever, Emily.”
The card slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the floor. The laughter of my coworkers turned into confused silence. “Who’s Emily?” someone asked.
I forced a laugh, my face burning. “Must be a mistake.” But my voice shook, and I knew they heard it. I scooped up the note, tucking it into my purse before anyone else could read it.
All day, the words haunted me. Forever, Emily. They weren’t mine. They weren’t meant for me. He had ordered roses for her, and somehow, by some cruel twist, they had been delivered to me.
That evening, I waited for him at home, the roses sitting in the middle of the dining table like evidence in a trial. When David walked in, he paused, his eyes flicking to the bouquet. “Wow,” he said cautiously. “Those are beautiful.”
“They are,” I agreed, my voice flat. “Do you want to read the note that came with them?”
His face paled instantly. He didn’t even try to play dumb. His lips parted, then closed again, his jaw clenching as he ran a hand through his hair. “Where is it?”
I pulled the card from my pocket and slid it across the table. His hand shook as he picked it up. When he read it, his shoulders slumped. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
My chest tightened. “So it’s true. Emily.”
He sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands. “It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t you dare say that. You wrote ‘forever’ to another woman. You sent her roses. That’s exactly what I think it is.”
His silence confirmed it.
The next hour was a blur of tears, shouting, broken dishes. He admitted it had been going on for months—late nights at work that weren’t work, trips that weren’t business. He said Emily made him feel “seen,” that she reminded him of who he used to be before responsibility dulled his spark.
“And me?” I demanded, my voice raw. “What am I? Just the woman who cooks your meals and washes your clothes? The one you leave behind while you chase your little spark?”
He tried to grab my hand, pleading. “I never stopped loving you.”
I pulled away. “You don’t send roses to someone you don’t love. You don’t promise forever unless you mean it. You gave my forever to her.”
The roses wilted quickly in the days that followed, their petals curling inward, their stems bending under the weight of their own deceit. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away at first—they stood as proof, as a reminder of the truth I had uncovered. But eventually, the stench of rotting flowers filled the house, and I realized I didn’t need them anymore. I had the truth burned into me already.
When I finally threw them out, it felt like throwing out the version of us I had been clinging to. The wife who believed she was enough, the marriage I thought was built on loyalty. Both gone, discarded like petals in the trash.
And though it broke me, there was also freedom in it. Because forever isn’t a word you whisper to two people at once. Forever is sacred. And he had given mine away.
Final Thought
The roses were supposed to be a symbol of love, but instead, they revealed betrayal. The note meant for someone else found its way to me, and with it came the truth I could no longer ignore. Sometimes the most beautiful gestures hide the ugliest secrets—and sometimes, a single word like “forever” is enough to end everything.
