After sixteen years of marriage, routine had become the rhythm of our love. Dan and I knew each other inside out—the way he liked his coffee strong and black, how I folded the laundry just so, which shows we could watch together without complaint. Our affection had matured into something steady, a quiet companionship that felt safe, predictable, and comforting.
Then, one Friday, he brought me flowers. Not for an anniversary or apology—just because. The following week, another bouquet arrived. Then another. Roses, daisies, lilies—always fresh, always thoughtful. My heart warmed each time. For a moment, I felt the thrill of early love return, a gentle reminder that romance hadn’t vanished, only evolved.
But soon, small inconsistencies began to creep in. His explanations about where he bought the flowers didn’t align. Once he mentioned a florist that had recently closed. Another time, a store receipt didn’t match his story. The unease was subtle at first—a flicker of doubt that refused to fade.
I tried to dismiss it as overthinking, yet something gnawed at me. Then, one Friday, I found a note hidden between the petals: “See you next Friday.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath me. My pulse quickened; my thoughts spiraled. I wanted to believe there was an innocent explanation, but the message felt intimate, secretive—undeniably wrong. For nights, I barely slept, replaying every conversation, every unexplained errand.
By the next week, I couldn’t take the uncertainty any longer. I left work early and followed him, heart pounding as I trailed his car through familiar streets. When he finally turned into her driveway—Erika’s, the woman who had once confessed her love to him—I felt the air leave my lungs.
It was the confirmation I feared most—or so I thought. As I sat there, gripping the steering wheel, I braced myself for heartbreak. But what I saw inside that house would change everything I believed about my husband, about love, and about what devotion truly means.