I Came Home From a Work Trip To Find 100 Roses Had Been Delivered to My Wife

I knew something was wrong before I even turned off the engine.

For seven years, whenever I came home from a work trip, my wife, Jane, was always on the porch before I finished pulling into the driveway. Sometimes she waved with both hands like I had been gone for months instead of five days. Sometimes she stood there barefoot in one of my old sweaters, smiling as if the entire house had been waiting to breathe again.

This time, the porch was empty.

“Jane?” I muttered, leaning forward over the steering wheel.

Then I saw the flowers.

At first, I thought there were maybe five or six bouquets scattered near the front door, which would have been strange enough. But as my car rolled closer, I realized the porch was covered in roses. Red ones, pink ones, yellow ones, white ones, all wrapped in paper, ribbon, and clear plastic that glistened in the afternoon sun.

There had to be at least a hundred.

I parked too sharply, grabbed my suitcase from the passenger seat, and stepped out slowly.

“What the hell?” I whispered.

The sweet smell hit me before I reached the steps, thick and overwhelming, the kind of fragrance that should have felt romantic but instead made my stomach tighten. Bouquets were stacked against the railing, lined near the welcome mat, and tucked along the porch swing where Jane usually sat with her coffee before school.

I was still staring when the front door opened.

Jane appeared in the doorway wearing jeans, a faded cardigan, and the tired expression she had been carrying for months. The moment she saw me, her face brightened, but before she could step forward, her eyes dropped to the porch.

She froze.

“Mark,” she breathed. “What did you do?”

Her voice was half wonder, half confusion.

I stared at her. “What did I do?”

She took one careful step outside and looked around as if the flowers might somehow explain themselves.

“You didn’t send these?”

“No,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “I just got home.”

Jane blinked, then looked from me to the roses. “Then who sent them?”

That question landed between us harder than either of us expected.

I tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. I watched her face closely, searching for something I did not want to find, but all I saw was shock turning slowly into panic.

“Mark, I have no idea,” she said. “Maybe there was some delivery mix-up?”

“A hundred roses is a pretty specific mix-up.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think I know something.”

I looked away first, because the truth was that suspicion had already slipped into my mind and settled there like a stone.

Jane noticed.

Her eyes filled with hurt. “You really think someone sent me all of this while you were gone, and I just forgot to mention him?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

She stepped back as if my words had physically touched her. For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then I saw it.

A small white envelope was tucked into one of the bouquets near the porch swing. I bent down before Jane could say anything, pulled it free, and turned it over in my hand. There was no name on the outside, only a crooked little heart drawn in blue marker.

“Mark,” Jane whispered.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a folded note written in uneven handwriting.

The first sentence made my throat close.

The second made Jane cover her mouth. And by the time I read the third, my hands were shaking so badly that the paper rattled against the envelope. For several seconds, I couldn’t understand why.

Then I looked closer.

The handwriting wasn’t elegant or romantic. It wasn’t the handwriting of a secret admirer trying to impress a married woman. The letters were oversized and uneven, some floating above the lines while others dipped below them.