For sixteen years, I believed I knew my husband, Dan — his every habit, routine, and quiet expression of love. So when he began bringing me fresh flowers every Friday, I thought it was simply his sweet way of keeping romance alive. Pink tulips, white lilies, daisies — each bouquet arrived with a smile and a soft kiss on the forehead. But one Friday, as I placed the flowers in a vase, a small folded note slipped from between the stems. It read, “See you next Friday.” My heart stopped. The message wasn’t for me.
That night, sleep was impossible. My mind replayed every detail — every bouquet, every moment that now seemed to hold another meaning. By the next Friday, curiosity had turned into fear, and I found myself waiting outside his office. When he left, I followed at a distance, my heart pounding as he drove into a quiet neighborhood far from home. When he turned down a street I recognized, dread settled in. It was Erika’s street — the woman who had once admitted she loved him years ago. I parked, shaking, and watched as Dan walked up to her house and went inside.
Unable to bear the uncertainty, I rang the doorbell moments later. The door opened — but it wasn’t Erika standing there. It was an older woman, kind-eyed and startled by my trembling voice. “Please,” she said softly, “come in.” Inside, I saw Erika lying in a hospital bed, frail and still, her head resting against a pillow. Dan sat beside her, reading aloud from a book, his voice quiet and steady. The older woman — Erika’s mother — explained that Erika had been in a terrible accident over a year ago, leaving her with lasting injuries and fading memories. “She remembers him,” her mother said, “only as her closest friend.”
Dan looked at me, guilt and tenderness in his eyes. “I should’ve told you,” he said. “I didn’t want you to think I was hiding something. I just couldn’t stop helping her.” The flowers, he explained, came from Erika’s mother’s garden — a small way to bring beauty into both of our lives. The note had been left accidentally among the stems. From that day on, the truth reshaped everything I thought I knew about love. Now, every Friday, Dan still brings home flowers, and together we visit Erika. Sometimes she braids my hair with clumsy fingers while Dan reads aloud. I’ve learned that love doesn’t always shout or shine; sometimes, it’s found in quiet devotion, in acts of compassion that expect nothing in return, and in the kind of loyalty that never needs to be seen to be real.