I bought my husband his dream watch for our 10th anniversary. I worked extra shifts, skipped plans, and saved for months to make the moment special. But when he handed me my gift, it was a cheap perfume in a flimsy plastic bottle. I felt stunned, hurt, and angry. I tossed it aside, never opened it, and didn’t know it would be our last anniversary together.
Three weeks later, he died suddenly. Months of grief followed, our home filled with memories I couldn’t touch without pain. Then, while cleaning, the perfume bottle rolled to my feet. Inside, I found a small folded note in his handwriting: “This isn’t your real gift. Check the drawer with your scarves. Happy anniversary, my love.”
I found a velvet box containing a delicate gold locket. One side held our wedding photo; the other, a tiny ultrasound. He had been carrying the secret of a child and planning a meaningful gift even while facing illness. Another note inside the bottle explained his playful ruse—he knew I’d dismiss the perfume, so the real gift would surprise me.
That “cheap perfume” wasn’t cheap at all. It held love, memory, and a miracle. It reminded me that true love isn’t measured by price—it’s in the thought, the effort, and the heart behind it.
