**Diary Entry – The Unexpected Blooms**
I found myself staring at the beautiful bouquet delivered by courier just half an hour ago. There was no mistake—it was meant for me. The note tucked inside said simply: *”To lovely Margaret.”*
Ever since the divorce, a secret admirer had appeared. The split from Andrew had been painful, though not because of lost love, but rather the cruelty of his mother. And Andrew, my now ex-husband, had always taken her side.
It was all so strange. The very evening I returned home with the divorce papers, the doorbell rang—a lavish bouquet of roses awaited me. At first, I thought it was Andrew mocking me. But flowers like these cost a fortune, and he had only ever been generous once, years ago.
Since then, deliveries came twice or even thrice a week, always accompanied by a brief note. I racked my brain trying to guess who could be sending them.
Gazing at the roses tonight, I remembered the one time Andrew had bought me flowers—after a dreadful row. His mother, Evelyn Sinclair, had outdone herself in turning him against me.
*”You’re wasting money!”* he had fumed, discovering I’d treated myself to a manicure.
*”It wasn’t that much,”* I argued. *”I work too—I can spend my earnings as I please.”*
*”We agreed to discuss major expenses,”* he shot back. *”And this nonsense cost a small fortune. Mum told me the price!”*
Of course. Evelyn never missed a chance to undermine me. She had despised me from the start, nitpicking everything—dirty windows, my work clothes, even my figure. Andrew never defended me. He would scold me for being a “bad wife” while his mother whispered poison in his ear.
The final straw came when Evelyn convinced him my weight was an embarrassment. *”Look at her—who’d want her now?”* she sneered.
I left for good. And on the day the divorce was final, the first bouquet arrived.
**The Truth Unfolds**
Months later, I ran into Veronica, Andrew’s distant cousin. She told me shocking news—Evelyn and her husband, William Sinclair, had divorced. William had been caught sending flowers… to someone.
The realisation struck like lightning.
That evening, I called him. *”William… was it you?”*
A pause. Then quietly, *”Yes.”*
Stunned, I barely managed to whisper, *”Why?”*
*”Because I’ve loved you for years,”* he admitted. *”Ever since you walked into our home.”*
I didn’t love him back—not then. But when my flat’s pipes burst weeks later, it was William who rushed to help. Over tea, we talked. He offered advice when I mentioned buying a car. Slowly, friendship deepened into something more.
For the first time, I knew what it meant to be cherished. William shielded me from gossip, even confronting Andrew when he lashed out.
*”Insult me if you must,”* William warned him, *”but if you say one vile word about Margaret again, you’ll regret it.”*
Evelyn screeched about humiliation, but William silenced her with a threat—the flat she prized was bought with his money. She clammed up fast.
My own mother was harder to sway. *”A disgrace!”* she cried. *”Him—twenty years older!”*
But I no longer cared. For once, I had someone who stood by me.
We married quietly, ignoring the whispers. Now, in our own home—mortgaged with the sale of William’s cottage—I wake each day grateful.
And the roses still arrive. Not from a secret admirer anymore, but from the man who taught me what love should be.
