The Day My Baby Died, My Husband Was Proposing to Another Girl Under Fireworks

My straitlaced husband, the man who never understood a single romantic gesture, suddenly had a change of heart. Every night, he came home from work carrying a bouquet of flowers.

Even though my pollen allergy flared every time, my chest still went soft and warm with something I couldn't quite name.

To reward Phil Gilbert, I messaged my assistant and told him to hand Phil two high-paying, low-effort projects to pad his numbers.

The flowers lasted a week. But tonight, Phil came home empty-handed.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him stroll into the bathroom, humming, practically glowing.

The shirt he peeled off carried the scent of an unfamiliar perfume.

Some instinct I couldn't explain made me pick up his phone. I checked his messages, his texts, even his bank statements. Nothing seemed off.

Just as I was scolding myself for being paranoid, a dual-app notification slid across the lock screen.

I tapped it open and found Phil's second messaging account.

The pinned contact was labeled "Wife." They shared a couple's profile picture.

She had just sent him a coffee shop location.

“Tomorrow's our first date. Don't be late, boyfriend.”

No wonder Phil hadn't brought me flowers tonight. He'd already won her over.

But that account, the woman on the other end, looked exactly like the con artist who'd once swindled my childhood friend down to her last dime.

——

The water shut off in the bathroom. I set the phone back exactly where it had been.

Phil stepped out, the steam rolling out with him, scattering that cloying sweetness in the air.

I ignored the corner of his mouth lifting and asked, deliberately light.

“Why no flowers today?”

He froze, then dragged the towel through his hair, careless, evasive.

“The florist closed early.”

“Besides, you don't even like flashy stuff, remember?”

I lowered my eyes and rubbed the plain silver ring on my finger.

In three years of marriage, it was the only gift Phil had ever given me.

He always said the money had to go back home, that it needed to be saved for the children we'd have someday.

So I never once asked him for anything.

On Valentine's Day, my whole feed was women showing off transfers from their husbands.

I dropped Phil a hint. He sent me five dollars and fifty cents, then rolled over and pretended to sleep.

On our anniversary, I spotted a dress while we were out walking.

Even on sale it was only a hundred and thirty. He said it wasn't worth it.

But just now, scrolling through their chat history.

Phil had sent her flowers for ten days straight, over a thousand dollars' worth, plus little cakes that ran more than a hundred apiece.

Sometimes he even brought her a packed lunch he'd made himself, shaped into a little heart.

I never knew Phil could cook.

The last time my stomach acted up, when the pain pinned me to the bed and I begged him to just boil me a little porridge, he told me he didn't know how.

I swallowed the sob clawing up my throat and forced my voice steady.

“Do you really love me?”

Guilt flickered across Phil's face. He grabbed his phone, checked that nothing had given him away, then visibly let out a breath.

He sat down beside me, his voice turning gentle.

“Of course I love you. You take such good care of the house, you always understand me.”

A few hollow words, then he turned his back to me and typed out a reply.

Phil's eyes were smiling as he leaned in and nuzzled against my neck.

“Good wife, I've got an important meeting tomorrow. Put together a sharp, formal suit for me, would you?”

I bit through the inside of my cheek, my nails breaking the skin of my palm.

Phil didn't love me at all. He just needed someone to run the house, a maid who'd bend to his every whim.

I forced the tears back, got up, and went to the living room to cool down.

Three years ago, when I went to close a deal and someone slipped something into my drink, it was Phil who beat those lowlifes off and saved me.

He cracked three ribs doing it, then dragged himself through getting me to the hospital before he finally collapsed.

When I woke up, he'd even gone out and bought me a bowl of porridge.

That was the moment my heart moved. I had my assistant look into him.

I learned Phil came from nothing, that his résumé had been turned away everywhere.

So I brought him into my company. Afraid the pressure would weigh on him, I disguised myself as a coworker and pursued him.