I found the box days before my birthday tucked behind old suitcases while searching for Luke’s picnic blanket. Inside it was a deep plum satin skirt I had shown my husband, Christopher, months ago. I was sure it was my birthday gift. I waited eagerly, even bought a blouse to match. But when my birthday came, there was no skirt—just a thoughtful stack of books. I held out hope. Days passed. Then I checked again. The box was gone.

I said nothing. I wanted to believe in trust more than suspicion. Months later, as I plated lemon tarts, Luke walked in, pale and hesitant. “It’s about the skirt,” he said. He’d skipped class once and come home early. He heard voices. Hid under our bed. It wasn’t me in the bathroom with Chris. The woman wore the skirt. I didn’t cry. I just held my son and felt my heart split.

Christopher’s birthday came days later. I hosted the party, baked the perfect cake, wore my best dress, smiled wide. Then Luke tugged my sleeve. “Mom… that’s the skirt.” Penelope. His assistant. Married. Wearing my gift. I confronted her sweetly. Her smile cracked. Then I gathered them—Penelope, her husband Nathaniel, and Chris and exposed the truth.

Chris said it was a “gift for her performance.” I asked if we were toasting boardroom performance… or lunch breaks in our bedroom. Silence. The party ended. So did the marriage.Chris moved out quietly. Penelope moved back home. Nathaniel walked away that night. Luke asked if I was okay. I told him yes—until I believed it, too.

Now, I walk at sunrise. I bake for joy again. I said yes to friends. I set one less plate at dinner. And I bought that skirt. In every color. Because if anyone’s going to spoil me now, it’s me.