I always imagined our tenth anniversary as something magical — soft candlelight, shared smiles, and gifts that reflected the journey we’d shared. I had saved up for months to buy my husband the watch he had admired for years, picturing the happiness on his face when he opened it. But when he handed me a small plastic bottle of perfume in return, my heart quietly faltered. It looked like a last-minute purchase, the kind of thing you’d grab without much thought at a convenience store. Still, I smiled, hiding my disappointment.
It wasn’t the price that hurt — it was what I feared it meant: that maybe he hadn’t truly noticed me, hadn’t put in the effort. That night, after he fell asleep, I slipped the perfume into a drawer and told myself I’d never use it. I didn’t realize then that it would become the most meaningful gift he’d ever give me.
Just three weeks later, he was gone. No warning, no chance to say goodbye — just a phone call that shattered my world. In the days that followed, I wandered through our home like a ghost. His coffee cup still sat on the counter. His coat hung by the door. And in that drawer, untouched, was the perfume. Every time I saw it, my regret grew. I had dismissed something given with love, and now there was no chance to tell him how much he mattered.
Months passed before I could start sorting through his things. One quiet afternoon, I found myself holding the perfume again. My hands shook. I almost put it away — but it slipped from my grasp. The bottle hit the floor with a crack, the cap popping off. As I bent down to pick it up, I noticed a small folded note tucked inside the cap. My breath caught.
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