I had always loved receiving flowers. The smell of roses, the rustle of delicate petals, the way a bouquet made a room feel brighter—it was romance in its purest form. So when a delivery man arrived at my office holding a massive bouquet of red roses, my heart soared. Everyone in the office clapped and teased, “Looks like someone’s in love!” I blushed, already imagining the sweet words my husband must have written inside the card. But when I opened it, my smile collapsed. The roses weren’t for me at all. They were for someone else. And the card said: “Forever yours, Mark.”
The embarrassment hit first. My coworkers leaned in, eager to read the note, expecting something romantic. I quickly shoved the card back into the envelope, my face burning. “Everything okay?” my friend Mia asked gently. I forced a laugh, my throat tight. “Yeah… just personal.” I carried the flowers to my desk, but the words pulsed in my head like a drumbeat: Forever yours. Not to me.
At home that night, I placed the bouquet on the kitchen counter. Mark walked in moments later, loosening his tie, smiling at the sight. “Wow, you got flowers?” he asked, leaning in to kiss me. I pulled back slightly. “Didn’t you send them?” His smile faltered. “What do you mean?”
I grabbed the card, shoving it into his hands. “This. Explain this.” His eyes flickered over the words. His face drained of color. “It’s… a mistake,” he muttered. My chest tightened. “A mistake?” I snapped. “You wrote ‘forever yours’ to another woman. Whose mistake is that?”
He stammered, running a hand through his hair. “They weren’t supposed to go to you. I mixed up the orders.” My stomach dropped. “Mixed up the orders?” I repeated, my voice trembling with fury. “So there really is someone else you’re sending roses to?” Silence. His silence was louder than any confession.
The rage boiled over. “Who is she?” I demanded. He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It was stupid. I ended it.” My laugh was bitter, jagged. “Doesn’t matter? You’ve been writing love notes, sending roses, signing forever yours—and it doesn’t matter?”
I stormed into the bedroom, my hands trembling as I yanked open drawers. Every late night at the office, every unexplained phone call, every faint trace of perfume that wasn’t mine—all the little doubts I had buried came roaring back. “How long?” I shouted. He followed, his voice breaking. “A few months. But I swear, it’s over. I love you.”
“Love me?” I spun on him, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Love doesn’t sign someone else’s card. Love doesn’t make me the mistake.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The roses sat in the trash outside, their petals crushed, their fragrance turning bitter. Mark begged me to forgive him, swore he would change, promised he’d never see her again. But promises meant nothing now. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that card, the bold letters mocking me: Forever yours.
In the weeks that followed, the house felt like a battlefield. He tried to be attentive, cooking dinner, leaving notes, showing up early from work. But his efforts only reminded me of what he had given to her. My trust wasn’t just cracked—it was shattered. And no matter how many times he said “I love you,” the words felt hollow, cheapened by the ones he had written for someone else.
One evening, I packed a small bag. My hands shook, but my resolve was clear. He asked, his voice breaking, “Where will you go?” I looked at him, my heart aching but steady. “Somewhere I don’t have to wonder if the roses on the table are meant for me.”
Final Thought
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t arrive in a confession or an argument—it arrives wrapped in ribbon, tied with a bow, and delivered to your door. Those roses taught me that love without loyalty is just an illusion. And while it broke me to walk away, it also freed me. Because I deserve flowers that are truly mine, not leftovers from someone else’s lie.
