For the first ten years of our marriage, Fridays were the same as any other day. I’d come home from work exhausted, make dinner, and collapse on the couch beside my husband, Oliver. We’d watch something mindless until we both drifted off.
Life was predictable, sometimes even comforting in its monotony. But after our fifteenth wedding anniversary, things started to shift in subtle, almost imperceptible ways. It began one Friday evening when Oliver walked in holding a bouquet of white lilies.
He wasn’t the kind of man who brought flowers ever. Not even when we were dating. He claimed it was impractical, that flowers just died, and he’d rather buy something useful.
But that evening, he came in grinning like a shy teenager, holding the bouquet awkwardly behind his back. “For you,” he said, handing it over. I was surprised, but pleasantly so.
“They’re beautiful,” I said, pressing my face into the cool petals. He kissed my cheek. “You deserve something nice.”
It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that it made me feel warm all over.
That Friday night, we had dinner together, laughed over a bottle of wine, and talked about the small things: work gossip, our aging dog, weekend plans. I went to bed thinking maybe we were finding each other again after years of just… existing side by side. But then, the next Friday, he came home with another bouquet.
This time, roses. And then another, the week after that, daisies. It became a routine.
Every Friday, Oliver would stop somewhere on his way home and pick up flowers. He’d smile, kiss me on the forehead, and say, “For my favorite girl.”
At first, I loved it. It felt like something had reignited between us.
But then, slowly, that warmth began to cool, replaced by a gnawing unease I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the way he always looked a little distracted when he handed me the flowers, or how he’d rush to change his clothes after getting home. Or maybe it was the faint scent of a woman’s perfume, something floral, but not the kind I wore that lingered on his shirt collar once or twice.
I tried to brush it off. I told myself I was imagining things. After all, this was the same man I’d built a life with, shared a mortgage and a bed with for nearly two decades.
Then, one Friday in late April, I found the note. It was tucked between the stems of a bouquet of sunflowers, folded neatly into a small square. I might never have noticed it if one of the petals hadn’t fallen out while I was arranging the flowers in a vase.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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