My Ex Turned Up One Saturday Afternoon with a Massive Bouquet, Chocolates, a Bag of Gifts, and That Old Charming Smile—For a Moment, I Thought He Was Here to Apologise or Finally Talk About Our Unfinished Business. It Felt Odd, Since After Our Split He’d Been Colder Than January. As Soon as He Walked In, He Launched into How Much He’d Thought About Me, How I Was “the Love of His Life,” and How He’d Realised All His Mistakes—It All Sounded a Bit Too Much Like a Well-Rehearsed Speech. He Came Closer, Hugged Me, and Told Me He Wanted to “Get Back What Was Ours.” While Talking, He Produced Perfume, a Bracelet, and a Box with a Letter—So Romantic It Seemed Almost Unreal, Especially Since He’d Never Been This Attentive When We Were Together. But Then, When I Invited Him to Sit Down and Asked What He Really Wanted, He Started to Waffle, Admitting He Had a “Little Banking Problem,” Needed My Signature for a Loan—Supposedly for a “Business Venture for Us Both”—and That’s When I Realised All the Romance and Gifts Were Just a Front. I Told Him I Wouldn’t Sign Anything; His Smile Vanished, He Tossed the Flowers on the Table, and Accused Me of Not Trusting Him, Saying This Was the “Opportunity of a Lifetime.” He Even Had the Nerve to Say If I Still Wanted Him, I’d Have to Help Out. When I Held Firm, He Switched Gears, Claiming He Was “Lost Without This Loan” and That Helping Him Would Mean He’d “Officially Get Back with Me and We Could Start Afresh.” At That Point, I Knew the Flowers and Sweet Nothings Were Nothing but a Facade Hoping I’d Agree. In the End, When I Refused Again, He Gathered Nearly All the Gifts—Took the Chocolates, the Perfume, Even the Bracelet—Leaving Only the Flowers Abandoned on the Floor. He Stormed Out, Calling Me Ungrateful, and Slammed the Door as If I Owed Him Something. That’s How Our “Reunion” Lasted Exactly Fifteen Minutes.

Author Walton MerrittReading 4 minViews 1

My ex turned up one Saturday afternoon holding an enormous bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates, a bag of gifts, and that smile I hadnt seen for months. I thought hed come to apologise or finally talk about all that unfinished business between us. It felt odd, as since we broke up, hed been so cold and distant, as if I was a complete stranger.

The moment he came in, he started going on about how hed been thinking, how he missed me, calling me the woman of his life and saying he realised the mistakes hed made. He spoke so quickly it was like hed practised his speech in front of the mirror. I stood there quietly, listeningwondering where all this sudden affection had been hiding after months of silence. Then he moved closer, hugged me and told me he wanted to get back what was ours.

As he spoke, he produced perfume, a bracelet and a box with a letter inside. The whole thingunbelievably romantic. He explained we owed ourselves another chance, that hed changed, and with me he finally wanted to get things right. I started to feel uneasyit was all just a bit too perfect to be real. Besides, hed never been anywhere near this thoughtful when we were together.

The truth came out when I invited him to sit down and asked him straight what he really wanted. Thats when he started to get tangled up in his story. He muttered about a small banking issue, how he needed a loan for a business venture that was for our future, and that all that was missing was a signaturemine.

Then it finally made sense: why hed shown up so loving and showering me with presents.

I told him I wasnt going to sign anything. The look on his face changed in an instant. The smile vanished, he threw the flowers onto the table and started shouting, demanding to know why I didnt trust him, claiming this was his chance of a lifetime. He spoke as though I owed him something. He even had the nerve to say that if I still wanted him, I should be willing to help. Everything fell apart as quickly as it had started.

When he saw I wouldnt budge, he tried a new approach. He said that without this loan hed be ruined, that if I helped him hed officially come back to me and we could start over. He said it with no shame at all, mixing up false reconciliation with his financial motive. That was when I knew for sure: the entire performancegifts, flowers, sweet wordswas just a front to get my signature.

In the end, when I repeated I wouldnt sign a thing, he gathered up nearly all the gifts: took the chocolates, pocketed the perfume and even the bracelet. Only the flowers, he left tossed on the floor. As he walked out, he called me ungrateful and told me not to say he hadnt tried to save the relationship. He shut the door as if Id wronged him.

So his dramatic reconciliation lasted all of fifteen minutes.

Sometimes, the people who claim to care for us the most may only show up when they need something, disguising their interests as affection. True love cant be bought or barteredits measured in honesty and respect, not gifts and empty promises.

“That’s Just Perfect…” Whispered Lydia. She loved having her morning coffee in silence, while Jack still slept and the first light crept through the window. In those moments, she felt everything was just right. Solid job. Cozy flat. Reliable husband. What more could happiness require? She had no envy for her friends, who grumbled about jealous partners and rows over nothing. Jack never questioned or made scenes. He never checked her phone, never interrogated her every move. He was simply there—and that was enough. “Lyd, have you seen my garage keys?” Jack shuffled into the kitchen, tousle-haired from sleep. “On the shelf by the door. Helping the neighbour again?” “Mike’s asked me to check his car. Something about the carburettor.” She nodded, pouring his coffee. It was so familiar. Jack was always lending a hand—to colleagues moving house, old friends with repairs, neighbours with whatever. “My knight,” she’d sometimes think fondly. A man who couldn’t walk past someone else’s trouble. It’s what had charmed her on their very first date, when he’d stopped to help a stranger carry her shopping upstairs. Another man would’ve walked by. Not Jack. Three months ago a new neighbour, Olivia, moved into the flat below. At first, Lydia hadn’t noticed her—people came and went in blocks like this. But Olivia was one of those women impossible to overlook. Loud laughter in the stairwell. Clacking heels at all hours. That booming voice on the phone so the whole building could hear. “Can you imagine? He brought me groceries today—without me even asking!” Olivia’s voice echoed through the landing. Lydia bumped into her by the letterboxes and offered a polite smile. Olivia beamed—sparkled, really—with that special, radiant glow of a woman newly infatuated. “New boyfriend?” Lydia asked, just to be civil. “Not exactly new,” Olivia smirked. “But very attentive. Solves every problem, you know? Tap leaking—fixed. Socket sparking—sorted. He even helps me pay my bills!” “How lucky you are.” “More than lucky! Sure, he’s married, but that’s just a ring, isn’t it? What matters is how he feels when he’s with me.” Lydia went upstairs, unsettled—not by someone else’s morals, but something had scraped raw inside, and she couldn’t name it. The encounters went on, week after week; Olivia almost seemed to lay in wait, ready to burst with new tales of devotion. “He’s so considerate! Always asks how I feel. If I need anything…” “Last night, he even brought me medicine in the middle of the night!” “He always says, the most important thing is feeling needed. That’s his whole meaning in life—to help…” That line made Lydia bristle. “Feeling needed is his meaning in life.” Jack had said those exact words. She remembered him explaining delays on their anniversary—he’d been helping a friend’s mother with her garden, said he couldn’t do otherwise. Coincidence. Just coincidence. There must be plenty of men with hero complexes. But the details piled up. The unsolicited groceries. The handy repairs—Jack’s very own ways. She pushed the thoughts aside. Paranoia. You can’t suspect your husband because of a neighbour’s chatter. Then Jack began to change—not suddenly, but gradually. He started “popping out for a moment” and vanishing for hours. Even took his phone into the bathroom. Snapped back with irritation at her simplest questions. “Where are you going?” “Out.” “Where?” “Lydia, what’s with the third degree?” Yet he seemed… happy. Quietly fulfilled, as if finally getting the dose of being needed he missed at home. One evening, he got ready to leave again. “Got to help a mate with paperwork.” “At nine o’clock at night?” “When else? He works days.” She didn’t argue. Watched from the window as he failed to emerge from the building. She slipped on her coat, calm, unhurried, and made her way to the familiar door downstairs. Her finger pressed the bell. Lydia had no script—no rehearsed accusations. Just pressed and waited. The door flew open like she’d been expected. Olivia stood there in a short silk robe, wineglass in hand. Her smile slipped when she saw who it was. And behind her, in the glowing hallway, stood Jack. Bare-chested, hair wet from the shower, moving about with the ease of someone at home. Their eyes met. Jack jolted, opened his mouth—then froze. Olivia flicked her gaze between them and offered only a bored, indifferent shrug. Lydia turned and walked upstairs. Behind her came the scurry of steps, Jack’s urgent voice: “Lydia, wait, I can explain…” But she didn’t let him in that night. …The next morning, his mother, Mrs. Grant, turned up. Lydia wasn’t surprised. Of course Jack had called his mum to share his version. “Lydia, why be so childish?” Mrs. Grant settled in the kitchen. “Men are just boys who want to feel heroic. That neighbour simply needed help. Jack couldn’t say no.” “He couldn’t say no to her bed, is that it?” Mrs. Grant winced, as if Lydia had been vulgar. “Don’t twist things. Jack’s a good soul. He pities people. That’s no crime. So he got carried away. It happens. My late husband too…” She waved her hand. “What matters is the family. You’ll work it out—you’re sensible, Lydia. Don’t ruin lives over nothing.” Lydia looked at her and saw everything she was afraid to become. Convenient. Patient. Willing to ignore anything for the sake of keeping up appearances. “Thank you, Mrs. Grant, but I need to be alone.” Her mother-in-law left in a huff, muttering about “young people who won’t forgive”. Jack slunk home that evening, wide-eyed and guilty, hoping to take her hand. “Lydia, it’s not what you think. She asked me to fix her tap, then we talked, she’s just so lonely and sad…” “You weren’t wearing any clothes.” “I… spilled water when I was fixing the tap. She lent me a shirt, and then you turned up…” Lydia marvelled that she’d never noticed before how bad Jack was at lying. Every word rang false. “Even if… suppose… even if something happened, it meant nothing! I love you. She’s just—well, just an adventure. A silly mistake. You’re what matters.” He tried to put his arms round her. “Let’s forget it, yeah? I promise I’ll stop. Honestly, she’s beginning to do my head in—always wants something, always needy…” That’s when Lydia finally saw: this wasn’t remorse. It was fear—fear of losing his comfort, of being stuck with someone truly needy, not someone who let him play the hero to schedule. “I’m filing for divorce,” she said, casually, as if announcing she’d switched off the iron. “What? Lydia, you’re mad! One mistake?” She rose, packed her bag, gathered her documents. …The divorce finalised two months later. Jack moved in with Olivia, who welcomed him with open arms—at first. Her embraces soon gave way to endless lists: fix this, buy that, pay those. Lydia heard occasional titbits via mutual friends. Nodded, without any malice. Everyone gets what they sign up for. She rented a small flat on the far side of the city. Every morning, she drank coffee in peace. No one asked about garage keys. No one popped out “for a sec” and returned smelling of someone else’s perfume. No one ever begged her to be more patient—more accommodating. She’d expected pain—loneliness, regret. But what came was something else: lightness. As though she’d taken off a coat she’d worn for years, never noticing how heavy it had grown. For the first time, Lydia belonged only to herself. And that was better than any “stability”…

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