When my six-year-old son Leo asked if we could save a seat at Thanksgiving for “the man who always brings Mommy flowers,” I was shocked. His innocent comment made me question if I truly knew my wife, Megan.
Thanksgiving had always been special to me, filled with family and warmth, and Megan and I had carried on the tradition for seven years. This year, we planned a quiet dinner with just the three of us, seeking a break from the stress of life. But Leo’s comment made me uneasy.
Leo explained that the “man with the flowers” visited when I was at work, leaving roses for Megan. Megan seemed uncomfortable, insisting he must be imagining things, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. That night, I asked her directly, but she dismissed it.
Thanksgiving morning, the doorbell rang. Leo jumped up, shouting, “It’s him!” A man in his forties stood at the door, holding flowers from a local shop. I turned to Megan, who finally admitted she had been seeing a therapist and that the flowers were part of her therapy to practice self-care. She had been struggling with stress and didn’t want to burden me.
Relief and guilt flooded me. I hugged her tightly, realizing I had missed the signs. That Thanksgiving, we sat down as a family, more connected than ever.
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