The bouquet was stunning—dozens of red roses, delicate baby’s breath tucked between, wrapped in silk ribbon with a tiny card nestled inside. It arrived at my office just before lunch, and my coworkers crowded around, teasing me, their voices full of admiration. I smiled, blushing, because flowers always meant something in our marriage. They were his way of saying “I love you,” his way of reminding me that we still had magic after years of routine.
But when I opened the card, my heart stuttered. The handwriting was his, unmistakable. The words: For the love of my life. Forever, J.
My chest warmed for a second—until I noticed the delivery tag still attached to the bouquet. It had been redirected. My name was scribbled hastily over another. And underneath, faint but visible, was my sister’s name.
I froze. My coworkers’ laughter faded into a dull hum. My fingers trembled as I traced over the faint ink. The roses smelled too sweet, almost suffocating now. My stomach turned.
That evening, I confronted him. The bouquet sat between us on the dining table, its petals mocking me with every perfect fold. “Why did these flowers have her name on them first?”
His eyes widened, his fork clattering against the plate. “What are you talking about?”
I shoved the tag at him, my voice shaking. “Don’t lie to me. Her name was there. You sent these to her first, didn’t you?”
His face paled, his mouth opening and closing without words. Finally, he stammered, “It was a mistake. The florist—”
“The florist didn’t write your handwriting in this card,” I snapped, slamming it down in front of him. “You called her the love of your life. That’s not a florist’s mistake.”
Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. My mind raced with every late-night phone call, every time he brushed off my questions about why he was spending so much time “helping” my sister. The puzzle pieces locked into place, and the picture they painted was one I had never wanted to see.
“I never meant for you to find out this way,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
The room spun. My worst fear, confirmed with roses.
I left the bouquet on the table that night, its petals beginning to wilt, its beauty rotting under the weight of betrayal.
Final Thought
Flowers are supposed to be symbols of love, but sometimes they’re evidence of deceit. Those roses weren’t meant for me, no matter how neatly he tried to redirect them. And once you see your sister’s name beneath your own, no amount of petals can hide the thorns.
