Our first wedding anniversary was supposed to be magical. I had everything planned: the table was set with candles, dinner was warm and waiting, and my heart was full of excitement. I’d spent two weeks practicing duck à l’orange, picking the perfect gift, and curating a night to celebrate a year of love and laughter with my husband, Thomas.
Then, my phone rang.
“Hey, sweetheart, I’m on my way to the airport,” Thomas said, like it was any normal day.
My heart sank. “What airport?”
“Emergency client meeting, you know how it is,” he said. I reminded him what day it was. He paused, apologized, and promised to make it up to me.
I sat there in my carefully chosen dress, candles still flickering, food untouched. I tried to salvage the evening with a relaxing bath, but just as I was unwinding, there was a knock at the door. A deliveryman handed me a beautifully wrapped cake box. I opened it to find a message in gold lettering: “It’s time to get divorced!”
Tucked inside was a note: “Hope you take this as well as he did. XOXO.”
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