It was a Tuesday, the kind of ordinary day that usually slips by unnoticed. I came home from work, dropped my bag by the door, and found a bouquet of roses waiting on the kitchen counter. Deep red, wrapped in brown paper, tied with a simple ribbon. No card. Just flowers.
I smiled despite myself. It had been weeks—months, really—since he’d done something like this. “Just because” flowers, the kind that say I thought of you today, had once been common in our marriage. But lately, they’d disappeared, like so many other small kindnesses. I inhaled their scent, letting it soothe the worry that had been gnawing at me. Maybe he was trying. Maybe he remembered.
That night, when he came home, I kissed him, pressing the roses against his chest. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
His eyes flickered, too quick. “Of course,” he said, smiling faintly. “You deserve them.”
I wanted to believe him. I really did.
Two days later, my neighbor stopped me by the mailbox. She was cheerful, almost conspiratorial. “I saw the delivery truck the other day—two bouquets! Lucky you!”
My stomach lurched. “Two?”
She nodded. “Yeah, same driver. He dropped one here and then took the other one next door. Pretty flowers. Same wrapping paper and everything.”
Her words echoed in my skull. Same wrapping paper. Same delivery truck. Same day.
When I got inside, I checked the receipt tucked into the brown paper of my bouquet. My hands shook as I unfolded it. Two orders. Two addresses. One was ours. The other—an apartment across town.
My chest tightened. I stared at the paper until the numbers blurred. He hadn’t just sent flowers to me. He had sent them to someone else.
That night, I didn’t confront him right away. I cooked dinner, listened to him talk about work, forced myself to nod at the right places. But the whole time, the receipt burned in my pocket. Finally, as he reached for his plate, I slid it across the table.
“What’s this?” I asked softly.
His eyes dropped to the paper. For a moment, his face was unreadable. Then his jaw tightened. “Grace, I can explain—”
“Don’t.” My voice cracked. “Don’t tell me it’s a mistake. Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You sent her flowers. The same flowers you sent me.”
He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “It was a coworker. She’s been going through a hard time. I didn’t want her to feel alone.”
I laughed bitterly. “So you sent her the same bouquet you sent your wife? Do you realize how insulting that is? I wasn’t special, Daniel. I was duplicated.”
He leaned forward, desperation in his eyes. “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”
But it was exactly like that.
In that moment, I realized the flowers weren’t a gesture of love. They were camouflage. A way to keep me from noticing that his kindness was already being shared elsewhere.
That night, I pulled the roses from their vase, one by one, dropping them into the trash. They were beautiful, yes. But beauty means nothing when it’s not yours alone.
Final Thought
Love isn’t proven by gestures when those gestures are recycled. My husband sent me flowers, but the moment I learned they had been delivered twice, their meaning withered. “Just because” should mean I was the only reason. Instead, it became the proof that I wasn’t enough.
