Valentine’s Day wasn’t just another holiday filled with chocolates and roses. For Melanie and me, it was our first wedding anniversary—a day that was supposed to be filled with love, laughter, and memories to cherish forever.
When she suggested getting married on Valentine’s Day, I had thought it was the ultimate romantic gesture. Now, looking back, I wasn’t so sure.
As the day approached, I felt immense pressure to make it special. It wasn’t just an anniversary—it was a statement, proof that our love was still strong. Melanie had always loved extravagant gifts, and I had spent years working long hours, climbing the corporate ladder just to meet her high expectations.
This anniversary had to be unforgettable. I had planned everything down to the last detail, convinced I had the perfect gift. Something meaningful. Something that would show her how much she meant to me.
I decorated our living room with fairy lights, their soft glow casting a golden hue over the space. I lit her favorite scented candles, filling the air with the delicate fragrance of vanilla and lavender. Everything was set. When she walked through the door, I asked her to cover her eyes before leading her inside.
“Oh! This is… nice,” she said, her voice hesitant.
Her reaction made my stomach twist, but I forced a smile. “Happy anniversary, Mel.”
She smiled back, though there was something guarded in her expression. “Let’s exchange gifts! Wait here—I’ll be right back.”
I sat down on the sofa, my heart pounding as I reached for the small velvet box hidden nearby. My fingers trembled slightly. This was it. This was the moment.
She returned, her hands behind her back, and sat beside me. “On three?” she asked, eyes twinkling mischievously.
“One…” she counted. I quickly pulled out the rose I had carefully chosen for her. “Two… three!”
We revealed our gifts at the same time.
She held out a set of car keys, tied with a glossy red bow. My breath hitched. “A car? You got me a car?”
I barely had time to process the shock before I noticed the disgusted look on her face. Her eyes were locked on the single red rose in my hand.
“Are you kidding me?” she scoffed, holding the rose like it was a piece of trash. “That’s it? That’s what I get for our anniversary? A pathetic little flower? You couldn’t even get me a real gift?”
My heart plummeted.
“Melanie, it’s not just a rose—” I started, but she cut me off with an icy glare.
“You’ve always been poor,” she spat. “And you still act like it. Do you even know who you married?”
She tossed the rose onto the floor, where it landed unceremoniously at her feet.
Then, she turned the car keys over in her palm, smirking. “Oh, and these? They’re not from me. My father gave me the car. I was just being generous. Clearly, I’m the only one who puts effort into this relationship.”
The words hit me like a slap. The expensive, extravagant gift that had stunned me wasn’t even from her.
I sat there, frozen, as years of memories flooded my mind. Every sacrifice I had made. Every insult I had brushed off. All the times I had convinced myself that love meant patience, that her sharp words were just part of who she was.
And yet, after everything, after all the long nights and hard work, she had dismissed my gift like it was worthless.
That night, friends and family gathered for our anniversary dinner. Laughter and conversation filled the house, glasses clinked, and music hummed softly in the background. Melanie floated from guest to guest, charming and radiant, gushing about the car her father had given her. She made no mention of the rose.
I sat in the corner, a glass of whiskey in hand, staring at the small, unopened box on the table. My real gift. The one that had taken me years to save for, months to plan.
Did it even matter anymore?
“Wait… so you didn’t even open his real gift?!” My sister’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with disbelief.
Melanie frowned. “What do you mean, his ‘real gift’?”
I leaned back in my chair, my voice steady. “It’s not for you anymore.”
But she had already spotted the box. Without hesitation, she lunged for it, tearing it open in front of everyone.
Puzzle pieces spilled onto the table.
She scoffed. “What the hell is this?” She turned them over in her hands, laughing bitterly. “More dollar store presents?”
Then she noticed the small card inside.
Her laughter died abruptly. Her hands trembled as she read the words. The color drained from her face.
“N-no w-way,” she stammered.
The puzzle wasn’t random. It was a picture of a house. Our house. The house I had secretly purchased for us, a place I had spent months finding, negotiating for, securing the mortgage.
I had bought it for our future, for the life I had dreamed of building with her. The rose I gave her wasn’t just a flower—it was from the garden in our new backyard. It symbolized everything I had been working toward, the love I had poured into us.
The room fell silent as I stood. “Yes, Melanie. I bought us a house. A real home. The rose wasn’t just a flower—it was a promise of the future I wanted to give you.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“But after what you said tonight?” I met her tear-filled eyes, my voice firm. “I have no desire to give it to you. And no desire to live in it with you.”
Her face crumpled.
“Wait, no—” she gasped, reaching for me with trembling hands.
I stepped back. “It’s too late. Tonight I saw the true cost of living up to your standards, and how quickly you turned on me when you thought I wasn’t able to. I’m filing for divorce.”
The moment I said it, a weight lifted off my chest. Years of bending myself to fit her expectations, of swallowing my pride, of convincing myself that love meant sacrificing my happiness—all of it dissolved.
“Wait, we can talk about this!” she pleaded, voice cracking. “I was just upset! I didn’t mean it! Please, you can’t do this to me!”
I shook my head. I had spent years giving her everything I could, and she had spent years proving it was never enough.
As I walked away, her cries turned to sobs, then silence.
My footsteps echoed through the house we had shared, past the memories we had built, and toward a future that, for the first time in years, felt like my own.
