A round number should have felt romantic. Grand. Intentional in the sweet way people planned things for anniversaries or birthdays. But my birthday was months away. Our anniversary had already passed.
And Daniel, for all his good qualities, was not a “one hundred roses for no reason” kind of man.
He was thoughtful, yes.
Extravagant, no.
I stood there staring at them.
Yellow roses have never had a single meaning. Some people associate them with friendship. Others with jealousy.
And in some cultures, they symbolize farewell.
A final goodbye.
The thought came so clearly that I stepped back from the table.
“Stop it,” I whispered to myself.
But unease had already slipped into the room.
I reached for my phone and called my husband.
It rang.
And rang.
Then went to voicemail.
I frowned. Daniel was busy during work trips, but he usually answered if he could. If not, he called back quickly.
I sent a text.
“Did you send me flowers?”
I waited, staring at the screen.
Nothing.
A minute passed.
Then five.
Then ten.
No answer.
I called again.
No answer.
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