I used to picture our tenth anniversary as something out of a dream — soft candlelight, shared laughter, and gifts that spoke to the journey we’d taken together.
I’d saved for months to buy my husband the watch he’d always admired, imagining the joy on his face when he opened it. But when he handed me a small plastic bottle of perfume in return, my heart quietly sank. It looked like something picked up in passing, the kind of thing you might grab at a gas station without much thought. I smiled anyway, masking the disappointment.
It wasn’t the cost that stung — it was what I feared it said: that maybe he hadn’t really seen me, hadn’t really tried. That night, after he fell asleep, I tucked the perfume into a drawer and told myself I’d never wear it. I couldn’t have known then that it would become the most precious gift he’d ever give me.
