Roses are supposed to mean love, devotion, a reminder that someone is thinking of you. When the delivery man showed up at my office carrying the biggest bouquet I had ever seen, my coworkers squealed with envy. “He’s a keeper,” one of them whispered as I blushed and signed for the flowers. I thought it was a gesture of romance from my husband, Daniel—a celebration of us. But when I opened the tiny white envelope tucked inside, my heart stopped. The card didn’t have my name. It had hers.
The backstory made the discovery even crueler. Daniel and I had been married for eight years. We had weathered rough patches—layoffs, family illnesses, miscarriages—but we had come out stronger. At least, I believed we had. He had always been affectionate, thoughtful with small gestures, the kind of man who would bring home my favorite chocolate just because. I thought flowers at work were just another one of those gestures, proof that despite life’s chaos, he still loved me.
The buildup began with how proud I felt when the roses arrived. My coworkers gathered around my desk, admiring the perfect red blooms arranged in crystal-clear glass. “You’re so lucky,” my friend Hannah said, her tone tinged with envy. “My boyfriend forgets Valentine’s half the time.” I smiled, warmth spreading through me. Maybe I had doubted him too much lately, maybe we really were okay.
Then I opened the card.
The climax came in a few simple words: Forever yours, Emily.
My chest tightened, my vision blurred. Emily. The name burned into me like fire. My name isn’t Emily. My hands trembled as I read it again, hoping I’d misread. But the handwriting was his, neat and familiar, the same loops and strokes that had signed my birthday cards for years.
“Everything okay?” Hannah asked, peering over my shoulder.
I snapped the card shut, my face burning. “Fine,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Just… he spelled my name wrong.” But inside, my stomach churned. Daniel had sent these flowers. He had written this card. But he hadn’t written it for me.
That night, I waited until he came home. The roses sat on our kitchen counter like an accusation. I held up the card. “Who’s Emily?”
His face went white. He stammered, reaching for excuses. “It’s—it’s a mistake. The florist must have—”
“Don’t lie to me, Daniel!” My voice cracked, raw with betrayal. “This is your handwriting. You wrote this. Who is she?”
Silence. His eyes darted away, shame written all over his face. Finally, he whispered, “She’s… someone from work. It’s nothing serious.”
Nothing serious. The words sliced deeper than the thorns on those roses.
I felt the room spin as years of trust collapsed around me. “You sent her flowers? You signed ‘Forever yours’? And then you sent them to me by mistake?”
His shoulders sagged. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t fight for me. He just stood there, guilty and small, while I crumbled.
The days that followed were filled with shattered illusions. The roses wilted on the counter, petals falling one by one like the remnants of our marriage. He begged, he apologized, he promised it would end. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw that card, those words meant for another woman, proof that I had been replaced long before I knew it.
Final Thought
Betrayal doesn’t always come with lipstick on a collar or late-night phone calls. Sometimes it comes with roses, wrapped in ribbon, delivered in broad daylight for everyone to see. The flowers that once symbolized love became the proof that mine was no longer his to give. And as the petals turned black, so did the last pieces of the trust I once held.
