The restaurant glowed with candlelight, glasses clinking softly, the scent of roasted garlic and wine drifting through the air. Our tenth wedding anniversary felt like a milestone, something solid, something worth celebrating after years of ups and downs. I wore the red dress he’d once said made me unforgettable. Across the table, Daniel smiled, raising his glass. “To us,” he said, his voice warm. I smiled back, relieved. Maybe all the doubts I’d been feeling lately were in my head. Maybe tonight would remind me why we’d lasted this long. But then the waiter came, pen poised, and Daniel ordered without hesitation. “We’ll start with the mussels in white wine. She’ll have the salmon, and I’ll take the duck. It’s always been my favorite.”
The words made my skin prickle. Not because of what he ordered—but because I knew duck wasn’t his favorite. It was hers.
My fork slipped against my plate with a sharp clink. I tried to smile, tried to swallow the unease. “Since when do you love duck?” I asked lightly.
He hesitated, just a second too long, then chuckled. “I’ve always liked it.”
But he hadn’t. In ten years of dinners together, he’d never once chosen duck. And yet he ordered it with the ease of habit, as though it had been his choice all along.
The evening went on, laughter rising around us from other tables, music swelling from a piano in the corner. But I couldn’t taste my food. I couldn’t hear his words. I was stuck on that dish, the one he used to rave about with her. The woman before me. The one he swore he had left in the past.
When dessert arrived, a rich chocolate torte, I pushed my plate aside. “Tell me the truth,” I said quietly.
He looked up, startled. “About what?”
“The duck,” I said, my voice trembling. “That wasn’t for you. That was for her, wasn’t it? You used to order it with her.”
His eyes flickered, guilt flashing like a shadow across his face. “You’re imagining things,” he said softly.
But I knew better. His lie was clumsy, too thin to cover the truth.
The rest of the night unraveled. I pressed him harder, my words spilling out faster than I could control. “Do you still talk to her? Do you still think of her when you’re with me? Am I just the stand-in while you replay memories with her?”
His silence answered before his lips did. Finally, he sighed. “She texted me last week. I didn’t respond. But yes… I thought of her.”
The candles flickered between us, the flame bending as if it might break. My chest ached with a heaviness I couldn’t describe. I had come expecting love, a celebration of us, but all I found was the ghost of another woman sitting between us, ordering her favorite dish through his mouth.
I left before the check came. The sound of his voice calling my name followed me out into the cold night, but I didn’t turn back.
Weeks later, the memory still burned. A simple plate of duck had told me more about my marriage than a thousand words ever could. It told me I wasn’t the only one at the table that night.
Final Thought
At my anniversary dinner, I thought I was celebrating love. Instead, I discovered a truth hidden in plain sight. I learned that betrayal doesn’t always scream; sometimes it whispers through habits, through choices that don’t belong to you. A dish, a memory, a ghost can ruin even the most beautiful evening. And when love becomes haunted by someone else’s favorite, it stops being love at all.
