The bouquet was stunning—roses in every shade of red, petals still dewy, tied with a silk ribbon. The card read, To my love, forever. My chest swelled, and for a moment I believed every word my husband had whispered the night before. But then the florist’s receipt slipped from the envelope, and I saw the delivery address. It wasn’t mine. It was hers.
Backstory explains why that detail ripped me apart. Aaron and I had been married for four years. He wasn’t perfect, but he had a way of making me feel like I was the only one in the room. He wrote notes on sticky pads, sent random texts saying he missed me, sometimes brought home flowers on Friday nights “just because.” I thought these gestures were proof of loyalty, of devotion. I clung to them when our marriage hit rough patches, when his late nights at work grew longer. Flowers were supposed to be a promise. But this bouquet was proof of betrayal.
The build-up had been laced with unease I tried to ignore. A new coworker he mentioned too often. A perfume I didn’t recognize lingering faintly on his clothes. The way he smiled at his phone, thumbs flying across the screen, when he thought I wasn’t looking. I brushed it all away, telling myself I was paranoid. Until the florist’s slip told the truth.
The climax unfolded in my shaking hands. I called the florist, pretending to be my husband, asking if the order had gone through correctly. The woman on the other end cheerfully confirmed it. “Yes, sir. We delivered one bouquet to Miss Hannah’s address, as requested, and then the second to yours. Both with the same card. You must be very romantic.” My stomach lurched. Romantic? No. Calculated. He had doubled the lie, hoping one bouquet would keep me blind while the other kept her warm.
When Aaron came home that evening, smiling at me as if nothing was wrong, I set the flowers on the table between us. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” I said, my voice icy. His smile faltered. I slid the receipt toward him, watching the blood drain from his face. “Who’s Hannah?” I asked. Silence stretched like a blade between us.
Resolution didn’t come from his excuses, though he tried. “She means nothing,” he swore. “It was a mistake.” But love doesn’t come in duplicates. You don’t write forever twice. That night, I moved the bouquet into the trash. Roses wilt quickly when their roots are lies.
Now, whenever I see flowers, I don’t think of romance. I think of betrayal tied with silk ribbon, proof that beauty can be nothing more than a cover for rot.
Final Thought
He thought two bouquets could hide one betrayal. But flowers don’t lie, and neither do receipts. Love is not a gift you can split between two hearts. Forever should belong to one person—or it means nothing at all.
