When the bouquet arrived at my office, I almost cried from happiness. Red roses, my favorite, wrapped in satin with a note tucked delicately between the stems. It was exactly the kind of romantic gesture I used to beg for, and now, without warning, he had sent them. My coworkers gathered around, teasing me, “Your husband’s finally stepping up!” I smiled, my cheeks warm, my heart fluttering. But then I opened the card—and instead of just a message of love, there was also an address printed at the bottom. An address I didn’t recognize. And it wasn’t mine.
At first, I thought it was a florist’s mistake. Maybe they reused a card, maybe it was some kind of invoice. But as I looked closer, I saw the message: To my darling, forever yours. My heart stopped. My name wasn’t anywhere on it. The handwriting was his, unmistakable. But the address below belonged to someone else.
I Googled it in a panic, my fingers trembling on the keyboard. The address led to an apartment complex across town. My chest tightened as I scrolled through photos online. I had never been there. But suddenly, I knew—I wasn’t supposed to.
That night, I confronted him. He was sitting at the table scrolling through his phone when I dropped the bouquet in front of him. “Nice flowers,” I said bitterly. His eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion. “What’s this?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snapped. “I got these today. From you. Only… I think you meant to send them to someone else.” I shoved the card at him. His face went pale.
For a moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched, unbearable, until I finally screamed, “Who is she?”
He swallowed hard, his hands trembling. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh really?” My voice cracked. “Then explain why you wrote forever yours to a woman who lives at this address.” I slammed the paper down, the ink smearing under my tears.
Finally, he broke. “Her name is Claire,” he whispered. “It started months ago. I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”
The world caved in. My stomach lurched, my hands shook, my knees nearly gave out. “Months?” I choked. “While I was at home, cooking you dinner, washing your clothes, planning our future—you were sending roses and promises to her?”
His face crumpled. “I’m sorry. I love you. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake doesn’t last for months,” I spat. “A mistake doesn’t come with flowers and handwritten notes. A mistake doesn’t come with a whole other address.”
I walked away that night, leaving him with his apologies echoing in the kitchen. The bouquet sat on the counter, wilting, its petals falling one by one like the pieces of the life I thought we had.
Weeks later, I can still smell the roses sometimes, that bittersweet scent that used to mean love but now reeks of lies. I’ve learned something since then—romance without honesty is nothing but poison dressed in petals.
Final Thought
Love isn’t proven by flowers or gestures—it’s proven by loyalty. He thought roses could cover his betrayal, but the truth was printed right there, attached to the bouquet. Flowers wilt, and so do lies, but the scars from betrayal remain long after the petals fall.
