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.

because I wanted them.

Looking at the flowers in the morning sunshine, I remembered the first delivery and my hopeful question, “For me?” The courier’s answer had been “Looks like it.” He’d been mistaken. That bouquet, its card, and the anticipation behind it had all belonged to another woman. But the truth enclosed with it had reached precisely the person who needed it.

I still wonder what might have happened without the florist’s error. Daniel might have gone to Portland, Laura received her flowers, and they’d spent the weekend together.