For my birthday, I received… a withered bouquet.
— “Where did these flowers come from?” I asked my husband coldly. “From the trash?”
— “So what? Some fool threw them away too early. They’ll last another two weeks,” he replied, unfazed. “They’re still beautiful flowers…”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
— “Seriously? You’re giving me a bouquet from the trash? Is that all I deserve?”
— “It’s not really a gift for you. I said I didn’t want to give you anything. It’s just for decoration,” he shrugged.
That was it—I exploded:
— “I’m fed up with your penny-pinching! What will you bring next time? Leftovers? Do you think that’s normal?”
— “Why not? Flowers are flowers. And they were on the trash, not in it,” he replied.
I was so disgusted that I didn’t say another word. I went to my room, cried for a long time, and felt sorry for myself.
The flowers stayed in the house for two more days, then he threw them out himself, right where he had found them.
I stopped sulking. But forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting. So I decided to prepare a “gift” for his birthday he wouldn’t forget.
Two months later, it was Alexei’s fortieth birthday. Superstitious, he refused to celebrate, claiming it wasn’t “customary.” I still congratulated him by message and promised a gift.
I came home early and set the table symbolically. He walked in around nine, glanced at the table, and grunted:
— “No need to bother yourself so much.”
— “I thought we could mark the occasion, so I bought a gift!” I replied cheerfully before running into the bedroom.
I returned with a box tied with a red ribbon and handed it to him.
— “What’s this?” he asked, shaking the box.
— “Open it, and you’ll see,” I smiled.
He untied the ribbon, opened the lid, and looked inside. It was delicious to see his expression change.
— “Socks and… underwear?” he said disgusted, holding a sock between two fingers. “Why without tags, faded? Looks like someone already wore them.”
— “Exactly. I’m not buying you new ones! I found them at a thrift store for a bargain,” I said, pretending to be cheerful.
He freaked out:
— “What’s gotten into you? Gross!”—and he threw the box on the floor.
Then calmly, I replied:
— “Just like it came to your mind to give me a bouquet from the trash.”
