My husband gave me shower gel for my birthday.
We’re not broke — far from it. His business is doing well, our bills are paid, and I’d secretly hoped for something thoughtful. Flowers. A small piece of jewelry. Anything that said he remembered who I am.
But the bottle he handed me was the one scent he knows I hate. Cheap, sharp, artificial. I stared at it, trying to smile, feeling something inside me shrink.
Later that night, when he was asleep, I stood over the sink, the light flickering, and unscrewed the cap. The smell hit me — cloying, fake sweetness — and I poured it down the toilet.
It wasn’t about the gift. It was about what it said:
that somewhere along the way, he’d stopped seeing me.
