The restaurant glowed with candlelight, the hum of quiet conversation broken by bursts of laughter from nearby tables. A violinist played softly in the corner. It was our anniversary—ten years together—and my husband had insisted on booking the most romantic place in town. He held my hand across the table, his smile warm, the kind of smile that made me remember why I married him in the first place. The waiter poured champagne, the glasses sparkling in the light. I thought this was going to be a perfect night. Until he stood to make his toast.
He cleared his throat, lifting his glass high. “To love,” he said, his voice steady but carrying emotion. “To the people who make life worth living.” The table around us—family, close friends—smiled, raising their glasses. But then his words shifted. “And to the one who has been my constant, my anchor, the one who understands me better than anyone else ever could. Without you, I don’t know how I would have survived these last few years.”
The room went still. My heart raced. He was looking directly at me—or at least, I thought he was. Until I followed his gaze. His eyes weren’t on me. They were on her.
She was seated at the far end of the table, my husband’s coworker, the woman I had already felt uneasy about for months. She flushed, her eyes lowering, but not before a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. My chest tightened, my grip on my champagne glass trembling.
Backstory spilled into me like poison. The late nights at the office, the way his phone always seemed to buzz when her name popped up, the business trips where he came back distracted, distant. I told myself I was imagining it, that I was paranoid. But his toast wasn’t vague—it was intimate, personal, a confession disguised as celebration.
I forced a laugh, my voice brittle. “That’s a…strange toast for an anniversary.”
He blinked, startled, as though he hadn’t realized the slip. “I meant you,” he said quickly, reaching for my hand. But his eyes betrayed him. They flicked to her again, just for a second. And it was enough.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. I smiled at jokes I didn’t hear, cut my steak into pieces I didn’t eat. My husband chatted with guests, laughed too loudly, drank too much. And every time he looked at her, my stomach twisted tighter.
When the cake came out, candles glowing, everyone sang. I blew them out, wishing for the one thing I knew I couldn’t have anymore—faith in him.
Later that night, when we were alone, I confronted him. “Tell me the truth,” I said flatly. “Was your toast meant for me—or for her?”
He stammered, ran a hand through his hair, swore it was all in my head. But his silence after every denial screamed louder than his words.
I realized then that I didn’t need him to confess. His toast had already told me everything.
Final Thought
Anniversaries are meant to remind you of love, of loyalty, of promises kept. But his toast wasn’t for me—it was for the woman he couldn’t hide anymore. In that moment, I realized I wasn’t his only one. And nothing cuts deeper than learning your love story has someone else written in the margins.
