The bouquet arrived just before lunch, a burst of roses and lilies so bright they lit up my entire desk. My coworkers gasped, teasing me as I untied the ribbon and pulled out the little card. “Looks like someone’s got a romantic husband,” one of them joked, and I smiled, my heart swelling. It was our anniversary, and I had secretly been hoping he’d remember this year. My hands trembled as I opened the card, ready to see his familiar scrawl. But the message inside made my stomach plummet. “To my love. Forever, A.”
At first, I thought it was a mistake. Maybe the florist mixed up the card. Maybe someone else in the office had ordered them. But the delivery slip had my name and my office address printed clearly. My coworkers leaned over, laughing, “What’s it say?” I slammed the card shut, my face burning. Because my husband’s name doesn’t start with A. But hers does.
The backstory made it cut deeper. For months, I’d had suspicions. Late-night texts he brushed off as work. Phone calls he took in hushed tones, walking outside where I couldn’t hear. He smelled of perfume sometimes when he came home, but not mine. I told myself it was paranoia, the byproduct of stress and insecurity. He always swore I was the only one. “Don’t you trust me?” he asked once, his eyes wide, hurt flashing across his face. And I did. I forced myself to. Until the flowers landed on my desk, signed with another woman’s initial.
The build-up of humiliation was unbearable. My coworkers whispered among themselves, some stealing glances at me as I shoved the bouquet aside. I ducked into the restroom, my hands shaking as I read the card again and again. Forever, A. It wasn’t just carelessness. It was intimacy. It was a slip from a man juggling two lives, forgetting which woman he was romancing. My phone buzzed just then—a text from him: “Happy anniversary, babe. Hope your day is good. Dinner tonight?” My throat tightened. He didn’t even mention the flowers.
The climax came that evening. When he walked through the door, smiling, carrying takeout from my favorite restaurant, I held up the card. “Who’s A?” I demanded, my voice breaking. He froze, the bags slipping from his hands. “What?” “Don’t play dumb,” I snapped, slamming the card onto the table. “You sent me flowers today. And you signed them Forever, A. Who the hell is she?” His face drained of color, his lips parting and closing as if searching for an excuse. Finally, he muttered, “It was a mistake. It wasn’t meant for you.” The words sliced through me like glass.
The resolution came in silence. I packed a bag that night, my fingers numb as I zipped the suitcase. He begged, swearing it was over, that I was the one he truly loved. But the truth had already bloomed, as bright and undeniable as the flowers on my desk. My coworkers’ whispers echoed in my head, the pity in their eyes seared into my memory. The bouquet with her initials wasn’t just a slip—it was proof. Proof that I was no longer enough.
Weeks later, I let the flowers wilt in their vase, the petals drooping, the water turning cloudy. I didn’t throw them away right away. I needed the reminder. Because sometimes betrayal doesn’t come in lipstick stains or suspicious texts. Sometimes it comes wrapped in ribbon, delivered in front of everyone, signed with the wrong initial.
Final Thought
Love isn’t proven in grand gestures—it’s in the details. My husband thought flowers would cover his lies, but the card told the truth he couldn’t hide. Betrayal blooms quietly, but once it’s in full view, you can’t unsee it. And once you know, you can never go back.
