While her husband was away, Amber received a breathtaking bouquet with no card and no sender. At first, it seemed romantic. Then she looked closer and realized the flowers might not have been sent with love at all.
The bouquet arrived just after noon.
One hundred yellow roses.
I remember the exact moment because I had just stepped away from the kitchen sink, where I had been rinsing out my coffee mug, when the doorbell rang. The sound echoed through the house, sharp and sudden, making me glance toward the front hall with a small frown.
Daniel was away on a week-long business trip.
That part was normal.
After 18 years of marriage, I had grown used to his suitcase by the bedroom door, his last-minute calls from airports, and the way his side of the bed felt too neat when he was gone.
His work took him out of town often, sometimes for two nights, sometimes for a full week. I never loved it, but I understood it. We had built a stable life around the rhythm of it.
There were no obvious problems between us.
No cold silences. No strange arguments. No hidden phone calls that made me suspicious.
We were steady.
At 44, I had stopped believing marriage was supposed to be fireworks every day. Sometimes love was a text that said, “Landed safely.”
Sometimes it was Daniel remembering to order the almond creamer before a trip because he knew I would forget. Sometimes it was sharing a quiet dinner without needing to fill every silence.
So when I opened the door and saw a deliveryman standing there with an enormous bouquet in his arms, my first reaction was to smile.
“Amber?” he asked, peering around the flowers.
“That’s me.”
“These are for you.”
He shifted the bouquet into my arms, and I nearly laughed because of how heavy it was. The roses were bright, almost golden under the porch light, their petals full and perfect. There were so many that I could barely see over them.
“Wow,” I said, gripping the thick green stems wrapped in paper. “Someone went all out.”
The deliveryman smiled politely. “Enjoy.”
I looked down, expecting to see a card tucked somewhere between the blooms.
There was nothing.
“No card?” I asked before he could leave.
He checked the small tag attached near the wrapping. “No card. No signature. Just your name.”
Just my name.
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