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.

entered the kitchen. He saw the roses, and his expression shifted—not with the sudden guilt of that earlier evening, but with surprise and a little caution. “Those are nice,” he said. I smiled: “They are.” He didn’t ask whom they were meant for. Perhaps he already understood.

I used the original vase, adding water and trimming stems while Daniel watched. I placed the roses in the middle of our table. They were for me: no apology, no evidence of forgiveness, no symbol of a repaired marriage. I’d chosen them myself