It was supposed to be a sweet surprise. I came home early with takeout and a bottle of wine, ready to celebrate our second anniversary. Daniel wasn’t expecting me until later, so I thought I’d sneak in, set the table, and make the night special. I dropped my keys on the counter, humming to myself, when I saw the envelope. Cream-colored, with a delicate gold border. My name written in Daniel’s handwriting. My heart skipped.
I smiled as I slid the card out, already imagining his usual heartfelt words. But the moment my eyes landed on the inside, the smile died.
“Happy Anniversary to my favorite girls — Emily & Me.”
I blinked, reading it again. My vision blurred, as if my mind refused to process it. There was a doodle of two hearts intertwined, and beneath it: “Here’s to us, always.”
My stomach churned. “Us?” Not me and him. Him and her.
The door creaked, and Daniel walked in, his face brightening when he saw me. “Hey! You’re home early.”
I held up the card, my hand trembling. “What is this?”
His smile faltered. “Where did you—”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snapped. “This was on the counter. Our anniversary card. Why is it addressed to both of us?”
His lips parted, then closed. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. “I… I didn’t mean for you to see it yet.”
My chest tightened. “So it’s true. You and her. You and my sister.”
“Please,” he whispered, stepping closer. “It’s complicated.”
“No,” I hissed, stepping back. “It’s actually the simplest thing in the world. You’re mine. She’s my sister. And you’ve been with her. How dare you reduce me to part of some twisted trio?”
Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “Was our anniversary supposed to be shared? Were you going to sit us both down, pour wine, and make a toast to betrayal?”
His jaw clenched. “I didn’t plan this. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“But you did,” I said, my voice cracking. “And you dragged her into it too. Or maybe she dragged you. Either way, you turned something sacred into something filthy.”
That night, I didn’t eat the takeout. I didn’t open the wine. I sat at the kitchen table with the card in front of me, staring at the handwriting I once cherished. The loops, the curves—familiar, but now venomous. The words were branded in my mind, a scar I couldn’t erase.
The next morning, I left the card on his pillow. A reminder of what he chose. A reminder that anniversaries are meant for two, not three.
Final Thought
Anniversaries mark love, loyalty, and promises kept. But sometimes they mark endings too. That card wasn’t just paper and ink—it was proof that my love had been shared without my consent, that my trust had been mocked. Some anniversaries aren’t meant to be celebrated. They’re meant to be mourned.
