Here’s your short story:
A Forgotten Anniversary
John stepped out of his car and froze. His wife’s suitcase, along with several boxes, sat on the front lawn. Clothes spilled from an open bag, and atop the pile was a framed photo of their wedding day—fifty years ago.
His stomach dropped. Oh no.
He had been so caught up in work that he had completely forgotten. Their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The milestone that Margaret had been talking about for months.
Panic surged through him as he hurried up the porch steps. The front door was ajar. Inside, Margaret sat on the couch, arms crossed, eyes red.
“Margaret, I—”
She held up a hand. “Don’t.” Her voice was calm, but he could hear the pain underneath.
John swallowed hard. “I forgot. I was going to make it up to you, I—”
Margaret let out a bitter laugh. “John, do you know what today means? Half a century. Fifty years. And you didn’t even call. Not a word. Not a note. Nothing.”
Guilt clawed at his chest. He had no excuse. His wife, the woman who had stood by him through everything—his failures, his successes, his bad temper, his long work nights—deserved more than this.
“I messed up,” he admitted. “I won’t make excuses. But please, don’t leave.”
Margaret shook her head. “I’m not leaving, John. You are.”
His breath caught. “What?”
“I packed your things.” She motioned toward the suitcase. “I needed you to see how it feels to be forgotten. To be tossed aside like an afterthought.”
John looked at the pile outside again. The weight of what he had done hit him like a punch to the gut.
Silence filled the room. Then, softly, he said, “Margaret, I love you. I always have. I’ve just been so—”
“Busy?” she finished for him. “Work, meetings, deadlines? That excuse stopped working twenty years ago.”
His shoulders slumped. “Tell me what to do.”
Margaret studied him for a long moment. Then she stood and walked to a small table by the window. A single envelope lay there. She picked it up and handed it to him.
“Open it,” she said.
With trembling fingers, John tore the envelope and pulled out a handwritten letter. It was dated a week ago.
“John, if you are reading this, it means you forgot. Again. I want you to remember the young man who once wrote me love letters, who held my hand in the rain, who promised forever. I want that man back. I don’t need grand gestures. I just need you to see me.”
John’s throat tightened. He looked up, tears in his eyes. “Margaret, I do see you. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”
She studied his face, then sighed. “One chance, John. One last chance.”
With a nod, he stepped outside, grabbed his suitcase, and carried it back in—back where he belonged.
