The little blue box should have made me happy. It was the kind of gift that said romance, thoughtfulness, the kind of gesture a woman dreams her husband will surprise her with. I opened it at the kitchen table, my fingers trembling with anticipation, and inside was a delicate gold chain with a small heart-shaped pendant. It sparkled in the morning light, and for a brief second, my heart leapt. Maybe he was trying. Maybe after all the distance, the arguments, the excuses, he was finally choosing me again.
But then I saw the receipt.
It slipped out of the bag with the box, a folded slip of paper with neat black ink. My eyes scanned the words: “Quantity: 2.”
Two.
The air left my lungs. My hands tightened on the paper until it crumpled. Why two? He had only given me one. Who was wearing the other?
When he walked into the kitchen, smiling faintly as if waiting for my reaction, I didn’t even pretend. I held up the receipt like a weapon. “Who’s the second one for?”
His face changed instantly. The smile vanished. His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
I shoved the paper toward him. “Don’t play dumb. Two necklaces. You gave me one. Who has the other?”
He glanced at the slip, his jaw tightening. “It’s nothing. Just a mistake on the order.”
“A mistake?” My voice cracked. “Then where’s the other necklace?”
He hesitated. Too long. And in that silence, the truth screamed louder than words.
Finally, he muttered, “It was for my assistant. Her birthday. I didn’t want you to feel left out, so I got you one too.”
The words sliced me open. “So what you’re saying,” I whispered, “is that the necklace I thought was a symbol of love was just… an afterthought? A way to cover your tracks?”
His shoulders tensed. “You’re twisting it. It’s not like that.”
But it was exactly like that.
I couldn’t stop picturing her—young, pretty, laughing as she opened the same little blue box. Did she think it meant something more? Did she wear it close to her heart, believing she was special? And me? I wasn’t special. I was the duplicate. The copy. The woman who got the second necklace, not the first.
That night, I sat at the vanity, the necklace heavy in my hand. I held it up to the mirror, watching it dangle like a question mark I couldn’t answer. I wanted to love it. I wanted it to mean something. But all I saw was betrayal hidden behind polished gold.
I unclasped it, shoved it back in the box, and buried it in the drawer. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Because no matter how deep I hid it, the truth clung to me: I wasn’t his first choice. I wasn’t the only one.
Final Thought
Sometimes betrayal isn’t about what’s missing—it’s about what’s duplicated. He bought me a necklace, but the love I thought it symbolized wasn’t mine alone. It was shared, divided, diminished. And now, every time I see that delicate gold chain, I don’t see romance. I see proof that I was never the only one he wanted to wear it.
