A week before the flowers ever showed up, something peculiar landed on my doorstep: a small, plain box with no return address and no name.
Inside was a drooping rose and a scrap of paper that read, “Thinking of you.” I tried to laugh it off as someone’s odd idea of a joke, but a thin ribbon of unease curled through me. Who would send that—and to whom?
So when my husband casually asked why I hadn’t thanked him for the flowers he’d sent, every hair on my arms stood up. Flowers? I hadn’t seen a single one. I told myself it had to be a mix-up at the delivery service… until it happened again.
He pulled up the confirmation email, and sure enough, the bouquets were real. Determined to finally catch the delivery, we placed one more order. This time I camped out by the door, watching the peephole like it was a surveillance mission.
When the courier finally arrived, carrying a blooming arrangement, my heart lifted—only to abruptly sink as he handed it straight to my neighbor. She accepted it with the delighted smile of someone convinced the universe adored her.
I stepped outside and gently asked the courier who the flowers were for. He pointed to my address. My neighbor stiffened, insisting they were hers.
My husband joined us, calmly explaining the mistake. Her face shifted as the truth settled in—first confusion, then mortification. She confessed she’d thought someone had been sending her anonymous bouquets to brighten her days, and she looked both embarrassed and oddly fragile admitting it.
I felt my irritation dissolve. Instead of letting the moment turn sour, I offered her one of the bouquets. Her eyes glistened as she apologized, and soon we were both laughing at how a simple delivery error had spiraled into a small emotional mystery.
In the end, I realized not every misdirected gift is a deception. Sometimes it’s just two people—one sending kindness, the other needing it—caught in a gentle collision of loneliness and hope.