The first bouquet showed up on a random Tuesday. By day five, my husband started scrolling through my phone. By day ten, he was sleeping on the couch. I had no clue who was behind the romantic flower deliveries, but I was determined to figure it out—before it wrecked my marriage.
Hey everyone,
I never expected to spill my life story online, but when your world suddenly feels like a twisted Hallmark movie, you need an outlet.
So here I am, still reeling from what turned out to be the most chaotic month of my three-year marriage.
Jeremy and I have been married for three years. We met at a backyard BBQ, bonded over true crime podcasts, and pretty much fell into a comfortable, happy rhythm.
Our life isn’t picture-perfect—we argue over chores and laugh about Netflix’s judgmental “Still watching?” prompts—but I always believed two things with certainty: Jeremy is loyal, and he would never intentionally hurt me.
We live in a modest apartment, but it’s ours. My nursing shifts and his contractor hours are hectic, so we savor our evenings—quiet dinners, house-hunting dreams, and the occasional talk of starting a family.
Then there’s his mother, Patricia.
Let’s just say we’ve never been close. She has a talent for compliments that sound like insults—“That outfit’s so bold for your shape!” or “Your cooking is… definitely creative.”
Ever since her husband died last year, she’s been more intrusive. She drops by constantly, calls Jeremy every day, and keeps suggesting we move into her “too-empty” house. Jeremy always handles it with patience, brushing her off gently, but I can tell it’s wearing on him.
“She’s just lonely,” he’d say after her visits. “She means well.”
Even with the Patricia situation, life was good. I’d just earned a promotion, we were steadily saving for a home, and we’d even begun talking seriously about having a baby.
Then the flowers started.
It began with a single bouquet of red roses. No sender info, just a sleek little card: To Lauren—You looked stunning yesterday. I’m always thinking of you.
I laughed it off, assuming it was a delivery mix-up.
Jeremy chuckled when I showed him. “Secret admirer?” he teased. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably for another Lauren,” I joked, though I still put them in a vase.
But the bouquets didn’t stop.
Each day, new flowers arrived. Orchids. Tulips. Lilies. Every arrangement more elegant—and every card more unsettling.
Lauren—I dream about you.
I remember the feel of your skin. I can’t forget you.
If he can’t see your worth, I will.
Jeremy’s amusement turned to concern. “Any idea who this could be?”
“None,” I said honestly. “I’ve been thinking hard, but I don’t have any suspects.”
“Maybe a patient?” he asked. “Someone misreading things?”
“I’m always careful. And no one at work knows our address.”
By day six, the deliveries got elaborate—and Jeremy’s demeanor shifted. He’d tense every time the doorbell rang.
“You really don’t know?” he asked, studying my face as I read another card.
“I swear I don’t,” I told him. “I would shut it down immediately if I did.”
Still, I saw something change in him—doubt beginning to creep in.
What started as a strange mystery was turning into something more sinister. The notes weren’t just flirty—they were manipulative.
Whoever was behind them wasn’t trying to win me over. They were trying to destroy my relationship.
And they were succeeding.
It all came to a head at dinner. Another bouquet arrived, and the card read: I count the hours until I can hold you again, Lauren.
When I returned to the table, Jeremy’s plate was untouched.
“Just tell me who he is,” he said flatly.
“What?”
“The guy. Whoever’s sending these.”
His voice was tight, pained.
“Jeremy,” I said softly, “I don’t know. I swear.”
But he didn’t believe me.
“I may not be rich or poetic,” he said bitterly, “but I thought I was enough.”
That one hit hard.
“You are enough. More than enough,” I pleaded.
“Then why keep the flowers?” he snapped. “Why not throw them out?”
I didn’t have a good answer. I’d kept them because… well, they were flowers. But in that moment, I saw what it must have looked like to him.
After that night, the gap between us widened. He slept on the couch. He checked my phone. He questioned my late shifts.
I was being punished for something I hadn’t done.
“I’m not cheating,” I said. “I love you.”
He just sighed and looked away.
The flowers kept arriving. I started refusing them, but they still ended up on our doorstep.
Then something clicked. The wording was… targeted. Not just romantic—strategic. It was written to provoke.
And the handwriting? It looked familiar.
So I saved every note, tucked them into a drawer, and started comparing. Birthday cards. Old notes.
And that’s when it hit me.
It was Patricia’s handwriting.
Still, I needed proof.
I called the florist who delivered the latest bouquet. “Hi, I’m Lauren. I’d like to confirm the recurring flower delivery at my address?”
“Of course,” the woman said cheerfully. “That’s the daily arrangement under Patricia. Do you want to change the billing?”
My heart skipped. “Can you confirm the billing address?”
“Sure—it’s listed at Oak Avenue.”
Patricia’s home.
That was all I needed.
She wasn’t just meddling. She was trying to sabotage her son’s marriage. She wanted him back in her house. With his dad gone, I guess she couldn’t bear losing Jeremy too.
I could’ve told Jeremy right away. But I wanted her to feel what I’d felt.
So I made a call to the same florist—and upgraded her own order. Twelve dozen red roses. Delivered to her house. Every day. For two straight weeks.
Each one came with a note from her imaginary admirer:
Patricia—your laugh at brunch was unforgettable.
You looked stunning in that red blouse.
Don’t tell Jeremy. He wouldn’t understand us.
She completely lost it.
On the third day, she barged into our home with a bouquet in hand, fuming.
“Lauren! Some creep is harassing me!”
“Oh no,” I said calmly. “But flowers? That’s hardly proof of anything.”
She looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.
Just then, Jeremy walked in. “What’s going on?”
I calmly pulled out the drawer of cards—the ones she sent to me. I placed them beside hers.
Then I looked him in the eyes.
“Your mom sent all of these. She’s the one who made you think I was cheating.”
Jeremy stared, stunned.
“Mom?” he asked, voice breaking.
“I just wanted what’s best for you!” she blurted. “She’s not right for you! She’s changed you!”
But Jeremy looked at me—really looked at me—and saw how much it had hurt.
Then he said the words I’ll never forget:
“No, Mom. You’re the one who doesn’t belong in this family.”
He asked her to leave. And that was the last time we saw her.
The flowers stopped, of course.
Now, whenever Jeremy sends me flowers, they carry meaning. Real love. Real trust.
One card said: To Lauren—who never needed flowers to prove her love. I’m sorry. Thank you for the truth.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
Trust your instincts. Protect your peace. And even when it’s family trying to tear you down, you have the right to fight for what you love.
And I’m so glad I did.