While her husband was away, Amber received a breathtaking bouquet with no card and no sender. At first, it seemed romantic. Then she looked closer and realized the flowers might not have been sent with love at all.
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The bouquet arrived just after noon.
One hundred yellow roses.
I remember the exact moment because I had just stepped away from the kitchen sink, where I had been rinsing out my coffee mug, when the doorbell rang. The sound echoed through the house, sharp and sudden, making me glance toward the front hall with a small frown.
Daniel was away on a week-long business trip.
That part was normal.
After 18 years of marriage, I had grown used to his suitcase by the bedroom door, his last-minute calls from airports, and the way his side of the bed felt too neat when he was gone.
His work took him out of town often, sometimes for two nights, sometimes for a full week. I never loved it, but I understood it. We had built a stable life around the rhythm of it.
There were no obvious problems between us.
No cold silences. No strange arguments. No hidden phone calls that made me suspicious.
We were steady.
At 44, I had stopped believing marriage was supposed to be fireworks every day. Sometimes love was a text that said, “Landed safely.”
Sometimes it was Daniel remembering to order the almond creamer before a trip because he knew I would forget. Sometimes it was sharing a quiet dinner without needing to fill every silence.
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So when I opened the door and saw a deliveryman standing there with an enormous bouquet in his arms, my first reaction was to smile.
“Amber?” he asked, peering around the flowers.
“That’s me.”
“These are for you.”
He shifted the bouquet into my arms, and I nearly laughed because of how heavy it was. The roses were bright, almost golden under the porch light, their petals full and perfect. There were so many that I could barely see over them.
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“Wow,” I said, gripping the thick green stems wrapped in paper. “Someone went all out.”
The deliveryman smiled politely. “Enjoy.”
I looked down, expecting to see a card tucked somewhere between the blooms.
There was nothing.
“No card?” I asked before he could leave.
He checked the small tag attached near the wrapping. “No card. No signature. Just your name.”
Just my name.
At first, that did not bother me.
Daniel could be private about romantic gestures. He had never been the type to write long, poetic notes. Once, on our anniversary, he had sent me a necklace with no message, then called at dinner and said, “I thought the gift said enough.”
I used to tease him for that.
Now, standing in the doorway with one hundred yellow roses pressed against my chest, I assumed he had arranged a surprise from wherever he was.
I carried them inside and set them on the dining table.
The flowers were stunning.
There was no denying that. They lit up the whole room, spilling color across the polished wood and making the house feel suddenly warmer, brighter, and alive. I turned the vase slightly and watched the petals catch the afternoon sun.
For a minute, I felt touched.
Then something felt off.
It was small at first. A little pinch behind my ribs. A quiet tug I could not explain.
For one thing, my husband knew I preferred white roses.
That was not a minor detail. Daniel knew it because I had told him a dozen times over the years. White roses were what I carried at our wedding. White roses were what he bought me when my mother passed away. White roses were on the table for our 15th anniversary dinner.
Yellow roses were beautiful, but they were not mine.
I folded my arms and stared at the bouquet.
“Daniel,” I murmured, half amused, half confused, “what were you thinking?”
Then there was the number.
Exactly 100.
Not 99.
Not 101.
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One hundred.
