I used to lie in bed in the quiet early mornings, staring at the ceiling while my husband, Kyle, slept beside me — a stranger more than a partner. Since our son Sam was born, Kyle and I had drifted apart. Conversations were short, affection was rare, and I felt like a ghost in my own home.
When I suggested a date night, he barely lifted his head. “I don’t feel like it,” he murmured, pulling the blanket up. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I swallowed them down. Every day I juggled work, house chores, childcare — and the aching sense that Kyle didn’t see me anymore.
At work that morning, Dean — the most attractive guy in the office — stopped by my desk. He always made me smile, noticed my new dress, complimented my hair. “Your husband doesn’t?” he asked. That simple thought struck a nerve. At lunch with Dean, for the first time in months, I felt heard.
Back at home, I tried again. “Let’s take a weekend trip,” I suggested. Kyle refused before I finished. Later, when I asked for a simple date night, he snapped back that we were fine. I exploded — “We live like strangers,” I cried. “You don’t look at me. You don’t care!” He said dismissively that life changed after a kid. I yelled, “It’s not normal to feel invisible!” and stormed off, hurling his pillow and blankets into the hallway. That night I cried until the tears ran dry.
The next morning, Kyle slipped out before I woke. I was numb — maybe relieved, maybe broken. At work, something caught my eye: a giant bouquet of flowers on my desk. No name, just a note: “You deserve to be adored every single day.”
Then another came the next day, and another. Each note was sweeter, more thoughtful than the last. “These flowers will fade, but my admiration never will,” one read. I didn’t bring them home — I wasn’t ready for more questions — so I shared them with coworkers. Only one note made me pause.
It said: “You deserve compliments and fresh flowers every day.” Words I’d heard before — from Dean. My heart pounded. Could he be my secret admirer? That afternoon, I found him at his desk. I forced myself to speak. “I know the flowers are from you. Please stop.” Dean paused… then laughed.
“I like you,” he said, “but as a friend. I’m gay.” I was stunned and embarrassed — but relieved. “Then who’s sending them?” I wondered, forcefully brushing aside the awkward moment.
A few days later, another bouquet arrived with a card:
“If you want to know who I am, meet me here at 7 p.m.”
I read it over and over. That night, at the restaurant Kyle had always refused to take me to, I waited with a pounding heart. The place was empty, candlelit, and covered with blooms. Then a voice: “And do you love him?” I turned — it was Kyle.
He confessed: he had stopped showing his love and let us drift apart. He saw how close I’d come to leaving. When he heard I might go, something in him changed. He admitted that the flowers were his — his way of showing love he stopped expressing.
I told him how simple gestures — a date night, a kind word — would have meant the world. When I explained giving the flowers away at work, he laughed and wrapped his arms around me. “So… can you forgive me?” he whispered. I nodded. He kissed me — and for the first time in a long time, I felt truly seen again.
