The candles on the table flickered, casting a warm glow across the polished silverware. The waiter had just poured our wine, the soft hum of jazz drifting from the corner of the restaurant. I smiled at my husband across the table, grateful he had remembered to make this evening special. Birthdays had never been his strength, but this year, he booked the nicest place in town, ordered my favorite dessert in advance, and even arranged for a bouquet of roses to be waiting when I arrived. For once, I felt like I mattered to him again.
He lifted his glass. “To you,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine.
I raised my glass too, my heart swelling. “To us.”
But then he smiled, that same crooked smile I fell in love with, and whispered the words that shattered me. “Happy birthday, Anna.”
Anna.
The name sliced through me like broken glass. I froze, my hand tightening around the stem of the glass so hard I thought it might snap. My name isn’t Anna.
The air between us thickened, the sound of clinking cutlery around us suddenly unbearably loud. My lips parted, but no words came. He blinked, realizing what he’d just said, his face draining of color.
“I—I meant Lily,” he stammered. “I don’t know why I said that.”
But I knew. Anna wasn’t a random mistake. Anna was real. Anna was someone.
My stomach turned. “Who is she?” I asked, my voice sharp, low enough that only he could hear.
He shook his head quickly, his hands fidgeting with his napkin. “No one. It was a slip. You know how it is—names get mixed up—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, my voice trembling. “Don’t insult me with excuses.”
His eyes darted away, his jaw tightening. The silence between us stretched, unbearable, before he finally whispered, “She doesn’t mean anything. It’s over.”
Over. The word hung heavy in the air, confirming everything I feared. He hadn’t just slipped. He had betrayed.
I felt my heart crack as the waiter returned with our plates, oblivious to the storm between us. I forced a smile, thanked him, and waited until he left before pushing my plate aside. My appetite was gone. My birthday had curdled into something bitter, poisoned by a single word.
When we left the restaurant, the bouquet of roses still in his hand, I walked a step ahead of him, the cool night air filling my lungs like knives. He reached for me once, but I pulled away. His touch felt foreign now, his presence a weight I no longer wanted to carry.
That night, I blew out the candles on my cake alone. My wish was no longer for happiness. It was for strength—the strength to face the truth, the strength to decide whether the man who called me by another woman’s name still deserved a place in my life.
Final Thought
Betrayal doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers through a single word, a slip of the tongue that reveals a hidden truth. My husband thought he was toasting me, but in reality, he was toasting her memory. That birthday, I didn’t just grow older—I grew wiser. And I learned that love poisoned by another name is no love at all.
