I dreamed of our tenth anniversary like a movie scene: soft music, laughter, hands intertwined, celebrating a decade of love, fights, forgiveness, and ordinary days that became our life.
To afford his perfect gift—an elegant watch I knew he’d love—I took extra shifts. That night, I gave it to him, heart soaring at his smile. Then he handed me a small bag: a cheap supermarket perfume.
Disappointment flickered; I hid it, smiled, kissed him. At home, I buried the bottle unopened in a drawer, trying to forget his lack of effort.
_three weeks later, he was gone._
The watch ticked on the bedside table. The perfume sat untouched, a stab of remorse each time I saw it. Grief erased rewind buttons, leaving only unsaid words.
I missed his humming, his thoughtful tilts, his gentle reminders. Love once filled our home; now absence screamed.
A year later, cleaning the drawer to make peace, the bottle slipped, shattered. The cap rolled under the bed. Reaching for it, I saw a folded paper slide from beneath the label.
My name, in his handwriting.
“I know this perfume is small, but I’m saving for the necklace you always wanted. Thank you for trusting me. You are my forever gift.”
Tears fell—grief, guilt, love. What I saw as indifference was sacrifice.
That night, the perfume took pride of place on my nightstand. I never sprayed it. Some gifts are too sacred to use.