My husband gave me a shower gel for my birthday.
We had no money problems.
At least, buy me some flowers!
I looked closely at the gel.
He knew I hated that fragrance.
I ended up crying and poured it down the toilet.
My husband came home happy and asked me “Did you like your gift?”
I stared at him, mascara-streaked and holding back the lump in my throat. “You got me lavender. You know I hate lavender.”
His smile faltered for a second, but he quickly recovered. “Oh. I thought you might’ve changed your mind. It was on sale.”
On sale. That stung more than the scent.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, numb. “It’s not about the price. It’s the fact that you didn’t think. Not even a little.”
He shrugged, confused. “It’s just shower gel. You’re overreacting.”
But it wasn’t just shower gel. It was every missed anniversary, every last-minute card, every thoughtless gesture wrapped in a half-hearted excuse. This was just the last drop in a bottle that had been slowly filling for years.
“I poured it down the toilet,” I said quietly.
His eyes widened. “You what?”
“I cried on my birthday because the man I married couldn’t be bothered to remember my favorite flower, let alone my favorite scent.”
He was silent. And for once, I let the silence stretch. Let him sit in it. Let him feel it.
Because I wasn’t crying over the lavender.
I was mourning the love that used to be thoughtful… and wasn’t anymore.