I’ve dated a divorced father of two for five years. This year, we dropped off his kid at his mom’s place for her birthday. I was invited to see her mother and grandmother’s gifts.
The fact that one of the gifts—a pink-cased painting set—was one I had bought and wrapped a week earlier broke my heart. Someone tried to remove the little sticker with “To Mia, from Lily,” which I had written on the side. Poorly.
Still faintly visible was my penmanship. I blinked to avoid a fuss. I didn’t want to ruin a child’s birthday with a gut sensation, but betrayal and confusion made it hard to breathe.
After cake, laughter, and too many pictures, I gently asked my boyfriend, Mark, if he gave his ex-wife the gift to pass off as hers. He looked at me like I had two heads. “What are you talking about?” he laughed like I was joking.
I wasn’t. I described what I saw. A strangely defensive man murmured about “wanting to keep the peace.” Not saying more in front of everyone, but something broke inside.
Driving home, I couldn’t contain myself. Again, I politely asked why he sent my gift to his ex to look like it was from her. He sighed.