The bouquet was stunning—roses the color of deep wine, lilies blooming wide, baby’s breath woven delicately between. They arrived at my office on a Tuesday afternoon, tied with a velvet ribbon and sealed with a card that read: Forever yours, Daniel. My coworkers squealed, teasing me about how lucky I was, how romantic my husband still was after all these years. I smiled politely, but inside, something gnawed at me.
Because I knew those flowers weren’t meant for me.
Two days earlier, I’d seen them already—on her social media. A woman named Sophia, someone I’d only recently noticed lingering in the background of Daniel’s life. She had posted a photo of herself holding the exact same bouquet, captioned: When he knows exactly how to make me feel loved. My stomach had twisted, but I convinced myself it was coincidence. Maybe hers were different. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe I was being paranoid.
But now, holding the same arrangement in my hands, with the same ribbon, the same card—just recycled—I knew. They were hers first. Mine were the leftovers.
I stared at the flowers on my desk until the colors blurred. My coworkers’ laughter faded. The office air grew heavy, suffocating. I excused myself, rushing to the bathroom, where I locked the stall and pressed a hand over my mouth to stifle the sob clawing its way out.
That evening, when Daniel came home, I set the bouquet in the center of the kitchen table. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” I said, my voice deceptively calm.
He smiled, loosening his tie. “I wanted to surprise you.”
I tilted my head, my eyes narrowing. “Funny. Sophia got them first.”
The color drained from his face. His mouth opened, then shut. His hands trembled as he reached for the chair. “It’s not what you think.”
I slammed my palm against the table, the vase rattling. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare lie to me. I saw her post. Same flowers. Same ribbon. Same words.” My voice cracked. “You sent them to her first.”
Silence. The kind that stretches and suffocates. Finally, he whispered, “I didn’t mean for you to find out.”
Tears burned my eyes. “That’s your excuse? That I wasn’t supposed to see the proof of your betrayal?”
He tried to explain, muttering about mistakes, confusion, feelings he hadn’t sorted out. But nothing could erase the image of Sophia smiling with my flowers, claiming love that was supposed to be mine.
That night, I moved the bouquet to the trash. The petals wilted quickly, their beauty fading as fast as my marriage had. Every time I passed the bin, the sweet scent turned sour in my throat, a reminder that I had been second choice in a game I never agreed to play.
Final Thought
Flowers are supposed to symbolize love, but mine became proof of betrayal. He didn’t just send them to her first—he gave her the best of him, and left me with the scraps. And nothing wilts faster than trust once it’s been handed to someone else.
