For our third wedding anniversary, I imagined romance. Instead, I got blindsided—again. When my husband’s loyalty was put to the test, I stayed calm… but made a decision that changed everything. This is a story about betrayal, setting boundaries, and the moment a woman finally stands up for herself.
I told Eric no.
I didn’t snap or sigh. I didn’t roll my eyes. I just said it, gently but firmly:
“Not this year. I want it to be just the two of us.”
He kissed my head and nodded like he understood.
“Of course, Grace. Just us.”
That was a week ago.
By our third anniversary, you’d think he’d have learned to take me seriously. Our first year, his mom, Judith, turned the whole thing into a family brunch at their lake house. The second year? A dinner for “just the six of us” that turned into a sixteen-person potluck.
So this year, I was crystal clear:
“I want something small. Intimate. Just me and you.”
He smiled.
“You got it, babe.”
On the day of, I only worked a half shift. Eric picked me up around 3 p.m., and I felt electric. I’d found the perfect dress—a deep green one with pearl-trimmed sleeves and an open back. I went all out: shower, shave, lotion, the works.
Twice I asked him to double-check the dinner reservation. Both times, he swore everything was set.
By 7 p.m., we were in the car—me in heels I could barely walk in, him fidgeting at the wheel, phone jammed between his shoulder and ear.
It was Judith. Again.
“She’s called you three times today,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
He waved it off. “Just something about Dad’s meds. Nothing major.”
But something about his tone felt… off. His laugh was too sharp, his jaw too stiff. Still, I let it go. I wanted to believe tonight would be different.
We pulled up to this cozy little restaurant tucked between a wine shop and a florist, its walls crawling with ivy and soft fairy lights twinkling through the windows. It looked like something out of a dream—like a place where anniversaries mattered.
I smiled. Hope fluttered in my chest.
Eric parked and got out quickly—too quickly. He didn’t wait for me like he always did. That should’ve been my first clue. But I was still holding tight to the version of the night I’d built in my head: just us, hands clasped across candlelight, wine glasses clinking, laughter bubbling between bites of pasta.
I had no idea what was waiting inside.