When the bouquet arrived at my door, I almost cried from joy. A dozen red roses, lush and perfect, wrapped in satin ribbon with a small white card tucked between the stems. My husband had been distant lately, distracted with “work,” and I thought maybe—just maybe—this was his way of finding his way back to me. I tore open the envelope with trembling hands, eager for the words he had written just for me. But my heart stopped when I read it.
The note was short: “I love you, always. Can’t wait to see you tonight.” Sweet. Romantic. But the name scribbled at the bottom wasn’t mine. It was hers.
At first, I thought it was a mistake. A mix-up at the florist. Maybe the delivery guy dropped the wrong bouquet at my door. But when I looked closer, I noticed the shipping label still stuck to the box. My address was crossed out in black marker. Beneath it, faint but visible, was another woman’s name. Her address. And it was only a few blocks away.
My stomach twisted. He had sent flowers—not to me—but to her. And somehow, they ended up on my doorstep instead.
I called him, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the phone. “Did you send me flowers?” I asked, my voice tight.
There was a pause. “Yeah,” he said smoothly, too smoothly. “Of course. For you.”
I swallowed hard. “Then why does the card say her name?”
Silence. Long, suffocating silence. I could hear his breath quicken, the faint sound of traffic in the background. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at the roses on the counter, their petals already softening, wilting, like the love I thought was mine. I imagined him knocking on her door, flowers in hand, his smile the same one he used on me when we first fell in love. I imagined her opening the door, pulling him inside, the bouquet pressed between them as they kissed.
The next morning, I walked past her house. The curtains were open, and there they were—together. My husband’s jacket draped over her chair. His laughter spilling out like it belonged there.
I didn’t knock. I didn’t scream. I just stood on the sidewalk, frozen, watching the life he built with her unfold while mine collapsed silently.
Final Thought
Flowers are supposed to symbolize love, but that bouquet didn’t feel like love. It felt like evidence. Proof that the man I trusted had already given his heart elsewhere. The roses eventually died, but the truth they carried still blooms in me, sharp and unforgiving.
