On Valentine's Day, a massive cake box appeared at my front door.
The message on the frosting plaque read：To the woman I love most in this life.
Before I could even feel touched, my husband called.
His voice was panicked.“Babe, that cake is for a client. I put the wrong address. Don't touch it!”
I opened the cake. The card inside read：“My darling Eleanor, once I divorce that worn-out wife of mine, you can finally move into our home for good. Love, Martin.”
I didn't know who Eleanor was.
But that worn-out wife he mentioned? That had to be me.
……
A pink ribbon was tied around the box, the bow delicate and perfectly shaped.
I crouched by the front door staring at it, frozen for several long seconds.
Three years of marriage, and Martin had never once celebrated Valentine's Day with me. Not our anniversary, not my birthday. He had never given me a single gift.
So when this cake box showed up at my door today, I couldn't help going blank for a moment.
A wrong delivery?
No. The address on the box was definitely my home.
And the recipient's name was Juliana Hughes. My name.
The frosting plaque said ‘To the woman I love most in this life.’ That didn't sound like anything Martin would ever say.
In three years, he couldn't even manage a simple ‘I love you’ without stumbling over the words. So when would he have written something this sentimental?
I had just carried the cake inside when my phone rang.
Martin's voice came through rapid and breathless.“Babe, is there a cake at the front door?”
“Don't touch it. It's for a client. I mixed up the address and the name. I'm coming home right now to pick it up!”
He hung up before I could say a word.
A cake for a client. So why did the frosting plaque say ‘To the woman I love most in this life’?
Before, I wouldn't have doubted him.
But two days ago, I'd found something while doing Martin's laundry. I'd wanted to ask him about it face to face, except he hadn't come home either night, claiming he was swamped at the office.
I took a deep breath and tore open the packaging.
A gold-embossed card was tucked into the cake. The handwriting was Martin's. I was sure of it.
“My darling Eleanor, happy Valentine's Day!”
“Once I divorce that worn-out wife, you can move right into our home. Just wait a little longer. Love always, Martin.”
Seeing myself reduced to those words on the card, my hands shook so hard I nearly dropped it, and I came within a breath of falling apart completely.
I didn't know who Eleanor was.
But that worn-out wife on the card? That was me.
I lost count of how many times I read it. At first came the fury, the urge to cry. Then, slowly, a miserable smile.
Three years of marriage, and I finally understood where I stood in Martin Delgado's heart.
I picked up a fork and started eating the cake.
It was sweet. My heart was anything but.
Martin never bought me cake. He said desserts were unhealthy, said the price of one cake could cover groceries for days.
Now I understood. It was never about the money. He just couldn't bring himself to spend it on me.
Martin rushed through the door drenched in sweat.
The moment he saw me sitting there eating the cake, the gold-embossed card lying open beside it, the color drained from his face.
I looked at him and said, my voice flat.“The cake's pretty good. A little too sweet, though.”
“Then again, too much sugar really is bad for a worn-out wife's skin.”
