The Night I Finally Chose Me
Our tenth wedding anniversary was on a regular Tuesday in April. But to me, it wasn’t just another day—it was our day. I wore red lipstick and slipped into that same red dress that once made Eric stammer and forget what he was saying. I still remembered that night like it was yesterday.
For ten long years, I had been the planner, the rememberer, the emotional glue holding everything together. I planned birthdays like a pro—custom cakes with inside jokes, surprise dinners, and gifts that made people cry happy tears. I bought Christmas presents in October, remembered his mother’s birthday even when he didn’t, and kept every event on our social calendar organized down to the minute.
But this time, just once, I wanted him to make the effort. I wanted to be surprised. I wanted to feel thought of.
A week before our anniversary, I brought it up while stirring my coffee at the kitchen table. I kept my eyes on the mug, pretending to be casual.
“So… have you made any plans for our anniversary next week?” I asked, like I wasn’t secretly holding my breath.
Eric glanced up from his phone, confused. “Haven’t you made plans?”
I shook my head and smiled gently. “Not this year. I figured maybe you could take a turn planning something special.”
He frowned for a second, then shrugged and smiled like it was no big deal. “Don’t worry. I’ve got dinner covered.”
A tiny flutter lit up in my chest. Could it be? Hope. Dangerous, fragile hope.
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, really,” he chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Ten years, babe. That’s a big deal, right?”
I nodded, sipping my coffee to hide my grin. Maybe this year would be different.
On the big day, I worked from home. My mind was in a hundred places—spreadsheets, emails, and this weird buzzing anticipation that wouldn’t quit. I wrapped up work by 3 p.m., then rushed to the shower, letting the hot water melt away stress and fill me with excitement.
I even shaved my legs—something I hadn’t done in, well, too long. I blow-dried my hair and curled it into soft waves, then applied makeup carefully: foundation, blush, mascara, and finally, that deep red lipstick I saved for special nights.
The red dress still fit—just a bit tighter around the hips—but I didn’t care. It still made me feel powerful. I pulled on my black heels that had gathered dust in the back of the closet.
By 6:30 p.m., I was ready. I sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, heart racing. I’d heard Eric come home an hour ago. I figured he was getting things ready—maybe setting up a surprise in the living room or preparing something romantic in the kitchen.
I didn’t go downstairs. I didn’t want to ruin whatever he had planned.
But by 6:45, I started getting restless. I could hear him moving around down there—doors opening, cupboards closing. Was he lighting candles? Plating food?
Then, at 7:00 p.m., the doorbell rang.
My heart leapt. This is it. Maybe flowers? A private chef? Something he knew I’d love?
I stayed upstairs, trying not to ruin the surprise.
I heard him open the door. A short exchange with someone. The sound of plastic bags rustling.
Then… silence.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I smoothed my dress, stood up, and walked downstairs slowly, heart pounding with a mix of hope and nerves.
The living room lights were dim, but not romantic—just the usual half-hearted lighting he used for watching TV. And then I smelled it.
Cumin. Lime. Cilantro.
Takeout?
Eric walked in from the kitchen holding a burrito bowl and a drink. He kicked off his shoes, flopped onto the couch, and turned on the TV.
I stood frozen at the foot of the stairs, staring at him. He didn’t even glance my way.
Finally, I stepped into the room. “Where’s mine?”
He turned, startled. “Hey! Uh… I forgot you were home.” He let out a weak laugh. “You scared me.”
He forgot I was home?
“Order something for yourself,” he said casually, eyes already back on the screen. “It’s not too late. We can watch the game together.”
I stared at him in disbelief. I waited—waited for him to comment on my dress, the lipstick, our anniversary—anything. But nothing. His eyes brushed past me like I was part of the wallpaper.
“Watch the game together? Order takeout?” I asked slowly. “Is this really what you planned for our anniversary?”
He shrugged, still watching the screen. “What? It’s just dinner. We can go somewhere nice this weekend if you want.”
I stood there, every part of me screaming inside. Ten years flashed before my eyes. Ten years of giving, planning, loving, waiting.
I didn’t say a word. I walked to the door, grabbed my purse and coat.
“Where are you going?” he called.
But I didn’t answer. I closed the door gently behind me. Let him wonder.
The night air was crisp against my skin as I stepped out of the car in front of a little Italian restaurant I’d driven by a hundred times. I had never gone in. It was cozy, with twinkle lights and a warm glow from inside. Tonight was the perfect night to change that.
“Table for one,” I told the hostess. She looked to be around my age, with kind eyes.
“Of course,” she said, leading me to a small table by the window. “That’s a beautiful dress. The color really suits you.”
Tears nearly filled my eyes. Someone noticed.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I ordered a glass of Merlot and took my time with the menu. I was starving now.
“I’ll have the fettuccine,” I told the waitress, “and tiramisu for dessert.”
She smiled. “Treating yourself tonight?”
I nodded. “It’s my anniversary.”
She didn’t ask any more questions. I was grateful for that.
Halfway through my pasta, I noticed a man sitting alone at the bar. Maybe early forties, kind face, sipping something amber in a glass. He caught me looking and smiled gently before turning back.
A few minutes later, we made eye contact again. This time, he raised his glass in a soft toast. I returned the smile, heart warming just a little.
After he paid, he walked over to my table.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said with a warm smile. “I just wanted to say—you look lovely tonight.”
Normally, I would have said I was married and brushed him off.
Instead, I smiled. “Thank you. Would you like some tiramisu? I ordered way too much.”
His eyes lit up. “I’d love to.”
His name was Daniel. He was a high school English teacher who loved Steinbeck and hated grading essays. Divorced for three years. He had an easy laugh and asked real questions—the kind that made me feel seen.
For thirty magical minutes, we talked about books, local restaurants, and why tiramisu is better than panna cotta. It wasn’t anything serious or dramatic—it was just nice. It was light. It was human. And I felt alive.
When the check came, he tried to pay.
“Let me,” I said, smiling. “It’s my anniversary gift to myself.”
He gave a curious look but didn’t ask questions.
“Can I get your number?” he asked as we stood to leave. “Maybe we could grab coffee sometime?”
I paused. Then slowly gave it to him. He typed it into his phone.
We said goodnight outside the restaurant, under the soft streetlamp glow. Daniel never called. But strangely, I wasn’t disappointed. That night had already given me exactly what I needed.
The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a printed stack of divorce papers from an online service. Eric came down in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s this?” he asked, yawning.
“Divorce papers,” I said quietly.
He blinked, thinking I was joking. “What? Over dinner? Over a burrito bowl?”
I looked up at him, calm and clear. “It wasn’t the burrito.”
“Then what?” he said, voice rising. “Are you seeing someone? That guy from last night?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s not about anyone else. It’s about me—being invisible for ten years. Carrying this whole marriage while you sat back.”
“That’s not fair!” he argued. “I was just tired yesterday. One bad night and you’re done?”
“It wasn’t one night,” I said. “It was every night. Every moment you didn’t see me.”
He didn’t get it. I saw it in his face. He never had.
I picked up the pen and signed my name with steady hands.
Eric tried everything in the following weeks. Promises. Therapy. Dinners. He begged.
But it was too late.
I hadn’t left because of one night.
I left because I finally understood something I’d ignored for too long:
I deserved to be seen.
And for the first time in a decade, I didn’t have to beg for it anymore.
