At first, that did not bother me.
Daniel could be private about romantic gestures. He had never been the type to write long, poetic notes. Once, on our anniversary, he had sent me a necklace with no message, then called at dinner and said, “I thought the gift said enough.”
I used to tease him for that.
Now, standing in the doorway with one hundred yellow roses pressed against my chest, I assumed he had arranged a surprise from wherever he was.
I carried them inside and set them on the dining table.
The flowers were stunning.
There was no denying that. They lit up the whole room, spilling color across the polished wood and making the house feel suddenly warmer, brighter, and alive. I turned the vase slightly and watched the petals catch the afternoon sun.
For a minute, I felt touched.
Then something felt off.
It was small at first. A little pinch behind my ribs. A quiet tug I could not explain.
For one thing, my husband knew I preferred white roses.
That was not a minor detail. Daniel knew it because I had told him a dozen times over the years. White roses were what I carried at our wedding. White roses were what he bought me when my mother passed away. White roses were on the table for our 15th anniversary dinner.
Yellow roses were beautiful, but they were not mine.
I folded my arms and stared at the bouquet.
“Daniel,” I murmured, half amused, half confused, “what were you thinking?”
Then there was the number.
Exactly 100.
Not 99.
Not 101.
One hundred.
The florist’s tag listed the exact count.
I picked it up between two fingers and read it again, as if the number might change if I looked long enough.
One hundred yellow roses.
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