My husband sent another woman a huge bouquet of white roses and pink peonies with a card signed “Love, Daniel,” and by one careless mistake, those flowers arrived at our house instead.

or perhaps I was beginning to practice believing him. Those were not yet the same thing.

Trust returned through small acts, not a declaration: honest answers, kept promises, difficult talks, a phone left visible, business travel discussed before booking. It was unromantic, ordinary work. Perhaps that was why its earlier destruction had been easy to hide.

The bouquet divided our history into before and after the flowers—my phrase, never Daniel’s. Asked when I first sensed trouble, I said, “Before the flowers, I thought we were tired.” Later, discussing work arguments,