It took only minutes for the conversation to drift toward the home I shared with my husband. According to her, it was their dream house first—blueprints sketched over late dinners, paint colors chosen together, kitchen counters they both once agreed would be “perfect for Sunday pancakes.” I listened, trying not to let my surprise show. Oscar had never mentioned that the place we’d spent three years turning into our sanctuary had been imagined by someone else before me. “We’ve made changes,” I finally said, maybe too quickly. “It’s our space now.” But she only smiled, as though she’d expected my answer. It wasn’t a cruel smile, just one full of history—history I suddenly realized I barely understood.
Then came the part about the flowers. She spoke of them casually, almost fondly, recalling annual bouquets Oscar continued sending “out of habit,” as she put it. My heartbeat stuttered, not out of jealousy, but confusion. Oscar, the man who sometimes forgot to reply to texts but never forgot to water our houseplants, was also the man who remembered to send floral arrangements to an ex? The reveal unsettled me more than anything else she’d shared. Yet something about the way she said it—soft, reflective—made me wonder if the flowers weren’t a declaration of affection, but rather a leftover ritual from a chapter neither of them had fully closed.
