At first, the flowers felt like a small miracle. After sixteen years of marriage, life had become a blur of schedules, responsibilities, and unspoken routines. Love didn’t disappear all at once—it faded quietly, in the way conversations shortened and surprises stopped arriving. So when my husband, Dan, began bringing home flowers every Friday, I didn’t question it. I let myself believe it was his way of reaching back toward me. Each bouquet sat on our kitchen table like a reminder that I was still seen, still chosen. For a while, it softened something tired inside me, and I thought maybe we were finding our way back to each other.
But little details began to feel off. Some flowers looked freshly pulled from soil instead of neatly cut. When I asked where he bought them, his answers changed each time, casual but inconsistent. I tried to dismiss the unease, telling myself not to ruin something good with suspicion. Then one evening, as I cleared away wilting petals, a folded note slipped from the wrapping. Four simple words, written in unfamiliar handwriting: See you next Friday. My heart raced as doubt rushed in. That night, lying beside the man I loved, I stared at the ceiling and wondered if I had been blind for years. By morning, the question wouldn’t let me go. I needed to know the truth, even if it hurt.
The following Friday, I followed him. I watched from across the street as he left work early and drove to a quiet neighborhood I hadn’t visited in years. When he stopped in front of a familiar house, my stomach dropped. It belonged to Erika—the woman who had once loved him before me, whose name I had locked away with old insecurities and promises long forgiven. I saw him knock, saw an older woman welcome him inside, and something inside me broke loose. I confronted them, shaking, ready for the worst. Instead, I was met with kindness—and an explanation I never imagined.
Inside, I found Dan reading aloud beside a hospital-style bed, where Erika lay fragile and childlike, her memory lost to a severe injury. She remembered only him, her childhood friend, and he had quietly been visiting to keep her company. The flowers were from her mother’s garden, meant for me—a small way for him to bring love home even while helping someone else. The note, a simple reminder misplaced by accident, had sent me chasing the wrong story. I felt shame, relief, and gratitude all at once. Love, I learned, isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s steady, imperfect, and kind—like tulips on a Friday, and the courage to stay when walking away would be easier.