I bought my husband his dream watch for our 10th anniversary.
All he got me was a cheap perfume in a plastic bottle.
I remember forcing a smile that night, but inside I was disappointed — hurt, even. After everything we’d been through, after the years of saving and sacrificing, I thought I deserved more than something that looked like it came from a clearance shelf. When we got home, I tossed it aside and never used it.
Three weeks later, he died unexpectedly.
That was our last celebration together.
The grief was unbearable, but what haunted me most wasn’t the gift anymore — it was my reaction. I replayed that night over and over, wishing I had just hugged him tighter instead of silently judging what he gave me. I missed everything about him. His laugh. His voice. The way he’d remind me to drink water when I got too busy.
Today, while cleaning, that perfume bottle slipped from a shelf and hit the floor. The cap popped off, and something small fell out.
A folded piece of paper.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten note:
“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.”
I sank to the floor and cried harder than I had in months — because it was never just perfume.
It was a promise he never got the chance to keep.
