I got my husband his dream watch for our 10th anniversary. All he got me was cheap perfume in a plastic bottle. I was so angry, I tossed it aside and never used it.This was our last celebration because he died unexpectedly three weeks later.Today, I was cleaning and the bottle fell.I froze. Inside, he was hiding a small, tightly rolled note.For a moment, I just stood there staring at it, my heart pounding as if time had folded back on itself. The bottle I had dismissed so quickly now felt heavy in my hands. I carefully opened it and shook the note free. The scent drifted into the air—soft, floral, and strangely familiar. It carried memories with it: quiet dinners at home, road trips with the windows down, the way he would hum off-key while cooking.
I realized I had never even given the perfume a chance. I had let my expectations speak louder than his effort.With trembling fingers, I unfolded the paper. His handwriting was slightly uneven, but unmistakably his. “I know it’s not flashy,” the note began, “but I chose this because it reminded me of the first time we danced in the kitchen. I hope when you wear it, you feel how much I love you—every single day.” Tears blurred the words. He had remembered a small moment I had long forgotten, one that meant more to him than any expensive gift ever could. I had been measuring love by price tags, while he had been measuring it by meaning.
That afternoon, I sat on the edge of the bed, holding both the note and the bottle, feeling a mix of regret and gratitude. Grief has a way of sharpening lessons we didn’t know we needed. I thought about how often we assume we understand someone’s intentions without asking, how quickly disappointment can overshadow appreciation. The watch I gave him had been polished and impressive, but his gift had been intimate and thoughtful. I simply hadn’t looked closely enough to see it.
Now, the perfume rests on my dresser, no longer ignored. Some mornings, I spray a little on my wrist and close my eyes. The scent lingers gently, a quiet reminder that love is rarely about extravagance. It is about noticing, remembering, and choosing each other in small, deliberate ways. If I could relive that anniversary, I would thank him first. Since I cannot, I carry his words with me instead, learning—slowly—that the most meaningful gifts are often the ones we almost overlook.