Valentine’s Day wasn’t just about chocolates and roses for Melanie and me. It was also our first wedding anniversary—a day that was supposed to be filled with love and unforgettable memories.
When she first suggested getting married on Valentine’s Day, it had seemed like the ultimate romantic gesture. But as the day approached, I realized the pressure I had put on myself. This wasn’t just an anniversary; it was also our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple. The expectations were sky-high, especially since Melanie had always loved grand gestures and expensive gifts.
I had spent months planning, searching for the perfect gift, something that would truly surprise her. And finally, I had it. It was something special, something that would prove how much I loved her.
That evening, I decorated our living room with fairy lights and lit her favorite scented candles. I wanted the moment to be perfect. When Melanie came home, I greeted her with a smile and gently took her hands.
“Close your eyes,” I whispered.
She did, and I led her into the softly glowing room. When I told her to open her eyes, I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
“Oh. This is… nice,” she said, her voice hesitant.
A strange feeling crept over me. I had expected excitement, maybe even happy tears. But she just stood there, forcing a smile.
Then, suddenly, she brightened. “Let’s exchange gifts!” she said, clapping her hands.
I nodded, my heart pounding. This was the moment. I reached behind me and pulled out the single red rose I had carefully chosen, the one that held more meaning than she could possibly know.
At the same time, Melanie held out a small set of car keys, decorated with a bright red bow.
I stared at them in shock. “A car? You got me a car?”
Before I could fully process it, I saw the way she was looking at my gift. Disgust flashed across her face, her lips curling in disappointment.
“You’re joking, right?” she scoffed, holding the rose up like it was a wilted weed. “A single rose? That’s it? That’s what I get after everything?”
My stomach dropped.
“It’s not just a rose…” I started, but she cut me off with a bitter laugh.
“You’ve always been poor,” she sneered, shaking her head. “And you still act like it. Do you even know who you married?”
Then, without hesitation, she tossed the rose aside. It landed on the floor, petals trembling from the impact.
I stared at her, my heart pounding in my ears. I had always known Melanie could be materialistic, but this—this was something else.
And then she twisted the knife even deeper.
“Oh, and these?” she said, twirling the car keys. “Not from me. My father gave me the car. I was just being generous.” She smirked. “Clearly, I’m the only one who puts effort into this relationship.”
A cold realization settled over me. The extravagant gift, the one that had stunned me—it wasn’t even from her. Of course, it wasn’t. Melanie had never been one to give unless there was something in it for her.
I sat there, frozen, memories flashing through my mind. All the times she had mocked my background, the times she had dismissed my gifts with thinly veiled disappointment. All the overtime I had worked, hoping to be enough for her.
But in that moment, watching her throw away something that held so much meaning, something shifted inside me.
Later that evening, our house was filled with family and friends for the anniversary dinner. Laughter filled the air, glasses clinked, and Melanie was back to her usual self—charming, radiant, basking in attention.
She floated around the room, telling everyone about the car her father had given her, conveniently leaving out any mention of the rose.
I sat in the corner, swirling a glass of whiskey, my eyes locked on the small unopened box on the table. The real gift. The one I had spent months planning.
“Wait… so you didn’t even open his real gift?!”
My sister’s voice rang out from across the room. Conversations died down, and all eyes turned toward Melanie.
Melanie blinked, her expression faltering. “What do you mean, his ‘real gift?’”
“There’s another gift?” she asked, her voice sharper now, snapping toward me.
I leaned back in my chair, calm despite the storm brewing inside me. “It’s not for you anymore.”
But her eyes had already landed on the box. Without hesitation, she grabbed it and tore it open.
Puzzle pieces spilled onto the table.
She frowned. “What the hell is this?” she muttered, flipping the pieces over in her hands. “More dollar-store gifts?”
Then she spotted the small card inside.
Her laughter died in an instant.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the card, eyes scanning the words. The color drained from her face.
“N-no way,” she whispered, barely able to breathe.
The puzzle wasn’t just random pieces. It was a picture of a house.
Our house.
The house I had secretly purchased for us. The house I had spent months finding, negotiating, and securing.
The rose wasn’t just a flower—it was from the garden of our new home, a symbol of the future I had built for us. A future she had just crushed under her designer heel.
The room had gone silent. All eyes were on her as I stood up.
“Yes, Melanie,” I said, my voice steady. “I bought us a house. A real home.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
“But after what you said tonight?” I continued, meeting her wide, tear-filled eyes. “I have no desire to give it to you. And no desire to live in it with you.”
Her face crumpled. Panic flashed across her features.
“Wait, no—” she gasped, reaching for me. “I was just upset! I didn’t mean it! Please, you can’t do this to me!”
I stepped back, out of her reach. “It’s too late.”
The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Her face twisted with desperation.
“Wait, we can talk about this! I’ll make it up to you, I swear!” she begged, voice cracking.
I shook my head. I had spent years giving her everything I could, and she had spent years proving it was never enough.
I turned, walking past the memories, past the life we had built, toward a future that finally felt like mine.
As I reached the door, her sobs echoed behind me.
But for the first time in a long time, I felt free.
