It was a typical busy afternoon at our house when my six-year-old son, Leo, asked if we could save a seat at Thanksgiving dinner for “the man who always brings Mommy flowers.” At first, I thought he must be making up a story. But the way Megan, my wife, froze and looked at me told me something more was going on. I needed to find out what it was.
Thanksgiving had always been a joyful time for our family. I grew up with big, loud celebrations at my mom’s house, filled with roasted turkey, pumpkin pies, and lots of laughter. So when I married Megan, I was determined to carry on those traditions.
For the last seven years, we’ve hosted Thanksgiving at our house. It’s always chaotic but filled with warmth and love.
This year, though, we decided to keep things small—just the three of us. Life had been a whirlwind of stress, from my extra work hours in hopes of getting a promotion, to the busy school activities for Leo, and the everyday tasks that pile up.
We all needed a little quiet time together, so we thought Thanksgiving would be the perfect way to reconnect.
A few days before the holiday, while we were going over our dinner plans, Leo, in his usual energetic way, suddenly stopped and said, “Can we save a seat for the man who always brings Mommy flowers?”
I froze. Megan, holding a stack of plates, stiffened.
“What man, buddy?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
“The one who gives Mommy flowers when you’re at work,” Leo said with a big smile.
I turned to Megan, expecting her to laugh it off. But she didn’t. She just stared at Leo with wide eyes, her silence louder than anything.
“Oh, really?” I said, trying to make light of it. “What’s he talking about, Meg?”
“I—I don’t know,” Megan stammered, sounding flustered. Then, she turned to Leo, her voice shaky. “Sweetie, what do you mean? What man?”
Leo shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The man with the flowers! I saw him on the doorstep with roses. I wanted to come see, but you told me to go to my room and not bother you.”
Megan’s reaction was far from reassuring. “That’s… not true, Leo,” she said weakly, trying to sound casual. “You must be imagining things.”
“I’m not!” Leo insisted, crossing his arms. “He brought pink roses last time. You said they were your favorite!”
I could see that Megan wasn’t handling this well. That night, after we tucked Leo into bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Megan had been distant all evening, and I had to know what was going on.
“Megan,” I said, sitting down beside her on the couch. “What’s happening? Is there something I need to know?”
She sighed deeply, looking exhausted. “It’s nothing, Tom. I don’t know where Leo got that from.”
But I didn’t believe her. Leo wasn’t the kind of kid to make up stories like this. And the detail in what he said made it seem too real.
“Megan,” I pressed again, my voice more serious. “If there’s something you’re not telling me, now’s the time to be honest.”
Her silence hung in the air like a heavy weight. Finally, she spoke, barely above a whisper. “Let’s just drop it,” she said, avoiding my gaze.
The tension was unbearable, but I didn’t press any further. I tried to shake off the feeling that something was off, but it lingered.
Thanksgiving morning arrived, and it started like any other year. Megan worked in the kitchen, preparing our meal while I set the table. Leo was happily watching his favorite show, and for a moment, things felt normal. But then the doorbell rang, and everything changed.
“Who could that be?” Megan wondered aloud.
Before I could answer, Leo jumped up, his eyes wide with excitement. “It’s him! The man with the flowers!”
My heart skipped a beat as I looked at Megan. Her face had gone pale, and she stood frozen, staring at the door as if she were trapped.
I quickly intercepted Leo before he could open it. Standing outside was a man in his late forties, holding a bouquet of flowers. His shirt had the logo of a local flower shop.
“Hi,” the man said, nervously shifting from foot to foot. “I know she asked for no deliveries today, but this was a last-minute order.”
I turned to Megan, my voice tight with tension. “Care to explain?”
Her shoulders slumped, and she gestured for the man to come inside. He placed the flowers on the table and left without saying another word.
Once the door closed, I turned back to Megan. “Who’s been sending you flowers?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Megan sank onto the couch, her voice trembling. “It’s not what you think,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean for it to be a secret. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
I folded my arms, waiting for her to explain.
“I’ve been working with a therapist,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “Leo must have seen the delivery guy. He sends flowers as part of my therapy.”
I blinked, trying to process her words. “Therapy?”
Megan nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’ve been struggling, Tom. With everything—the stress from your long hours at work, the financial pressures, feeling like I’m failing as a mom… I just needed help. My therapist suggested that I do small things for myself, like getting fresh flowers, to feel better.”
A mix of relief and guilt washed over me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to burden you,” she whispered, wiping away a tear.
I pulled her into a tight hug, my heart heavy. “You’re never a burden, Megan. I wish I had noticed sooner.”
That Thanksgiving, we sat down as a family, feeling more connected than ever before. Sometimes, the most unexpected moments bring people closer, and this was one of those moments. I realized that, no matter how busy life gets, it’s important to pay attention to the little things—and to each other.
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