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.

Almost a year after the delivery, in spring, I visited the farmers market alone. Among buckets of tulips, lilies, peonies, and roses, I paused before white roses. The vendor said “Those opened beautifully this morning.” For twelve months they’d meant that Thursday, Laura, Daniel, betrayal. Then I realized they were simply flowers. Neither Daniel nor Laura deserved to own their beauty forever.

I asked, “How much?” The woman answered, “Twenty for the bunch.”

I said, “I’ll take them.” Then I carried the bunch home. Daniel was making coffee when I