At first, I thought the flowers were just a sweet gesture — my husband Dan’s way of keeping romance alive after sixteen years of marriage. Every Friday, he’d walk in with a smile and a new bouquet, saying, “For my girl.” For weeks, it made me feel cherished again. But one evening, while arranging the blooms, I found a folded note tucked between the stems that read, “See you next Friday.” My heart sank, and doubt crept in where love once sat easily.
I tried to brush it off, but the small inconsistencies piled up — different stories about where he bought the flowers, a dirt-covered stem that didn’t look store-bought. Eventually, I couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore. So the next Friday, I followed him. He left work early and drove to a quiet neighborhood I hadn’t seen in years. When he pulled into a driveway I recognized, my breath caught. It was Erika’s house — the woman from his past I thought was long gone.
An older woman answered when I knocked, her voice calm and kind. “He’s not doing anything wrong,” she said gently. Inside, I saw Dan reading aloud beside a hospital bed. Lying there was Erika, pale and frail, holding a teddy bear. Her mother explained that after a serious accident, Erika had lost most of her memory and often asked for Dan, her childhood friend. The flowers, she said, were from her own garden — a gift Dan brought home each week after visiting.
I felt tears sting my eyes as the truth settled in. Dan hadn’t been hiding betrayal — he’d been hiding compassion. The note was just a reminder for his next visit. Now, I often go with him, bringing cookies and company. Watching him read to Erika reminded me that love isn’t always about grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s about kindness done quietly, loyalty that expects nothing in return, and flowers that mean far more than they seem.