Valentine’s Day wasn’t just another holiday filled with chocolates and roses. For Melanie and me, it was also our first wedding anniversary—a day meant to be special, a celebration of our love. Or so I had thought.
It had been her idea to get married on Valentine’s Day, calling it the “ultimate romantic gesture.” At the time, it sounded perfect. But when our first anniversary approached, I felt an overwhelming pressure to make it unforgettable. After all, it wasn’t just an anniversary—it was also Valentine’s Day. Two occasions wrapped into one.
Melanie had always loved luxury. She had high standards and expensive taste, but I loved her despite it all. Before we got married, I worked endless hours, climbing the corporate ladder just to give her the life she wanted. I convinced myself that if I worked hard enough, provided enough, she would see my worth.
And this anniversary? It had to be perfect. I had spent months planning, making sure my gift would be meaningful, something that showed her how much I cared. I had the perfect present, one that would take her breath away. But I never imagined the night would end the way it did.
I decorated our living room with fairy lights and scented candles—her favorite. The soft glow of the lights made the space feel magical, exactly how I had envisioned. When she arrived home from work, I greeted her at the door, excitement bubbling inside me.
“Close your eyes,” I said, taking her hands gently. She let me guide her inside, and when I told her to open her eyes, I waited for her reaction.
She blinked at the decorations, her lips pressing together. “Oh… this is… nice,” she said, her tone anything but excited.
A flicker of doubt crept into my mind, but I pushed it aside. She was just tired. Maybe she wasn’t expecting this. I still had my gift to give her, and I knew it would change everything.
“Let’s exchange gifts first!” she said suddenly, her face lighting up.
I nodded, my hands growing clammy. “On three?”
Melanie grinned, closing her eyes dramatically. “One…two…three!”
We both revealed our gifts at the same time.
She held out a set of car keys wrapped in a red bow. My eyes widened. “A car? You got me a car?” I asked, stunned.
Then I noticed her expression. She wasn’t looking at me—she was staring at my gift with disgust.
“A rose?” she said, her voice dripping with disappointment. She held it up like it was an old receipt, something worthless. “Are you serious? That’s it? That’s what I get after everything? A single pathetic rose?”
Her words hit me like a slap.
I swallowed hard. “It’s not just a rose—”
“Oh, don’t even start.” She scoffed, tossing the rose onto the table like trash. “You’ve always been poor,” she spat. “And you still act like it. Do you even know who you married?”
I stared at her, my heart sinking.
She held up the car keys, twirling them between her fingers. “Oh, and these? Not from me. My father gave me the car. I was just being generous.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Clearly, I’m the only one putting effort into this marriage.”
The room felt smaller, suffocating.
Something inside me cracked.
All those years—every overtime shift, every sacrifice, every moment I spent trying to be good enough for her—flashed before my eyes. How many times had she dismissed my efforts? How many times had she made me feel small, like no matter what I did, I would never measure up?
Later that evening, our house filled with family and friends for the anniversary dinner. Melanie had switched back into her charming, bubbly self, laughing and basking in attention. She made sure to tell everyone about the car, conveniently leaving out the part where it wasn’t actually from her. She never once mentioned the rose.
I sat in the corner, nursing a glass of whiskey, my mind fixated on the unopened box sitting on the table. The real gift. The one I had spent months preparing, the one that actually mattered.
Then, my sister’s voice cut through the chatter. “Wait… so you didn’t even open his real gift?”
Melanie turned, her smile faltering. “What real gift?” she asked, brows furrowing.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. “It’s not for you anymore.”
But she had already spotted the box. Without hesitation, she lunged for it, tearing it open in front of everyone.
Puzzle pieces spilled onto the table. She frowned, confused, turning them over in her hands. “What the hell is this?” she scoffed. “More cheap gifts?”
Then she saw the small card inside.
Her face paled as she read it. Her hands trembled.
“No way…” she whispered, her voice shaking.
The puzzle wasn’t just random pieces—it was a picture of a house. Our house. The house I had secretly purchased for us, spending months searching for the perfect one, saving every extra penny to make it a reality.
The rose I gave her earlier? It had come from the garden in that house. It was meant to be a symbol—a promise of the future I had planned for us, the home we would build together.
I stood, my voice calm but firm. “Yes, Melanie. I bought us a house. A real home. I worked for years to give you something meaningful.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“But after tonight?” I shook my head. “I have no desire to give it to you. And no desire to live in it with you.”
Her face crumpled. “Wait—no—” She reached for me, desperation in her eyes. “I didn’t mean what I said! I was just upset! Please, don’t do this.”
But I had already made my decision.
For years, I had given everything to this marriage, only to be met with criticism and entitlement. Tonight, I finally saw the truth: she would never change. And I was done trying to prove myself to someone who would never see my worth.
“I’m filing for divorce,” I said, my voice steady.
A gasp rippled through the room. Melanie’s perfect image shattered in front of everyone.
She sobbed, begging me to reconsider, but I didn’t look back.
For the first time in years, I felt free. Lighter.
I walked away, stepping toward a future that was finally mine—and this time, I was choosing happiness over her.
