This morning, I decided to clean our room. Dusting the shelves, I found that forgotten bottle of perfume. I picked it up, and before I knew it, it slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.
The cap popped off. A small piece of folded paper slid out.
Inside was his handwriting — familiar, steady, and full of warmth.
“I know this perfume is temporary, but next month I’ll surprise you with the necklace you’ve been dreaming about. Thank you for believing in me, even when I don’t say it enough. You are my forever gift.”
The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I sank to the floor, clutching that note and the perfume to my chest.
He hadn’t been careless. He hadn’t been thoughtless. He had been saving for something special — something he never got the chance to give.
And I had missed it completely.
The Real Gift
Now the bottle sits on my bedside table, the faint scent of jasmine still lingering. I don’t see it as a cheap gift anymore. It’s a symbol of the love I almost overlooked — the love that lived quietly in his gestures, his patience, and his belief that small things could hold deep meaning.
He had always been like that. When money was tight, he’d bring me wildflowers instead of roses. When I was stressed, he’d make me tea without saying a word. His love was never loud — it was steady, gentle, and enduring.
That perfume reminds me of that truth.
