I woke up that morning with butterflies in my stomach. Our anniversary. Three years of late-night drives, whispered promises, and planning a future together. I had a little gift tucked away—a leather watch I’d had engraved with his initials. I pictured his smile when he opened it, the way he’d pull me close and say, “How did I get so lucky?”
But the morning came and went. No flowers. No text. No call. Nothing.
I told myself he was busy. Work had been overwhelming lately, and maybe he planned to surprise me later. I dressed carefully for dinner anyway, waiting for his message to say where we’d meet. But when the sun set and the city lights blinked awake, my phone stayed silent.
By 9 p.m., I couldn’t pretend anymore. He had forgotten.
I lay in bed clutching the watch box, my chest heavy, my eyes burning. How do you forget the day that’s supposed to mean everything?
The answer came two days later, when I saw his Instagram story. He had remembered—it just wasn’t with me.
The photo was simple: a beach, waves crashing, a cocktail in his hand. The caption read: Needed this getaway. But the reflection in his sunglasses told the truth. A woman. Smiling at him. Her hand on his arm.
Her.
The same woman I’d seen once on his phone, the one he called “just a friend.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. I zoomed in, my hands shaking. There she was, laughing in the reflection like she belonged there, like I didn’t exist.
I called him immediately, the ring tone thundering in my ear. He answered, his voice casual. “Hey.”
“Where are you?” I demanded.
“Just out with friends,” he lied easily.
I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Really? Because I can see her in your sunglasses. On the beach. The beach you took her to instead of me. On our anniversary.”
Silence. Then, “It’s not what it looks like.”
The oldest lie in the book.
“Then tell me what it is,” I snapped.
“She needed a break,” he muttered. “She’s going through a lot. I thought I’d help her clear her head.”
I nearly dropped the phone. “You booked a trip. On our anniversary. For her.”
“She needed it,” he repeated.
“And I didn’t?” My voice cracked. “I needed you. I needed you to remember the one day that was supposed to be about us. And instead, you gave it to her.”
The silence on the other end was answer enough.
I hung up before he could try to twist it again. My hands shook as I deleted the photos of us from my phone, one by one. The dinners, the vacations, the smiles—all gone.
That night, I sat on my balcony with the unopened watch box in my lap. The city hummed below, couples holding hands, laughing, living. I thought about mailing it to him, about letting him see the engraving he never earned. Instead, I locked it away. Not because I wanted to keep it for him, but because I wanted to remember this: the day I realized my worth wasn’t measured by whether a man remembered a date.
Final Thought
Anniversaries aren’t about gifts or fancy dinners. They’re about remembering, about choosing each other over and over again. He chose someone else. And that choice told me everything I needed to know. Forgetting an anniversary hurts, but booking a trip with her on the same day? That’s unforgettable—and unforgivable.
