The Night I Finally Chose Me
It was our tenth wedding anniversary—ten whole years of marriage. I wore red lipstick, the same shade I wore when we first went out. I slipped into the red dress that once made my husband, Eric, stop mid-sentence and just stare. I wanted to feel that again.
That day, I truly believed him when he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle dinner.”
This time, I thought I could sit back, relax, and let him take the reins.
For a decade, I had been the one who made everything special.
I planned birthday parties with cakes that had his favorite video game characters on them, bought and wrapped Christmas gifts weeks early, and made dinner reservations at the best places for our anniversaries.
I even remembered his mom’s birthday when he forgot it himself, sent holiday cards to his siblings, and ran our calendar like a general. Every dinner with friends, every doctor’s appointment, every special date—we only ever remembered because I remembered.
But this year, I didn’t want to be the one keeping it all together.
One morning, a week before our anniversary, we were having breakfast. Eric was scrolling through his phone like always. I stirred my coffee and said, trying to sound casual,
“So… have you made any plans for our anniversary next week?”
He looked up, surprised. “Haven’t you made plans?”
I shook my head slowly. “Not this year. I thought maybe you could plan something for a change.”
Eric raised an eyebrow and then gave me a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve got dinner covered.”
Something fluttered in my chest. It felt like hope—real hope.
“Really?” I asked, trying not to sound too excited.
He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, really. Ten years, babe. That’s a big deal, right?”
I hid my smile behind my coffee mug. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe he’d finally see me.
On the day of our anniversary, I worked from home. But honestly, I didn’t get much done after 3 p.m. I kept glancing at the clock, thinking about the evening.
At 4, I stepped into a hot shower. My heart pounded with nervous energy. I shaved my legs for the first time in months, blow-dried my hair, and curled it into soft, bouncy waves.
I did my makeup carefully—foundation, blush, mascara, and that bold red lipstick I’d saved for something special.
I stepped into my red dress and slipped on my black heels—the ones I hadn’t worn since before the pandemic. My heart was racing.
By 6:30 p.m., I was dressed and ready. I sat on the edge of our bed, waiting.
Eric had come home over an hour ago, but he hadn’t come upstairs. He hadn’t even called out to me. Maybe he was setting something up?
I told myself not to ruin the surprise. Maybe he was planning a romantic dinner downstairs.
6:45 came and went. Still nothing.
At 7, the doorbell rang. I jumped up, heart racing.
This must be it! He ordered flowers. Or a private chef? Something romantic. Something thoughtful. Something new.
I heard Eric’s footsteps downstairs, then the sound of him talking to someone at the door.
Plastic bags rustled.
I waited.
Silence.
Then I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I smoothed my dress, took one last look in the mirror, and walked downstairs.
The living room lights were dim. I could smell cumin and lime in the air. Mexican takeout?
Eric walked in from the kitchen holding a burrito bowl. He kicked off his shoes, flopped on the couch, and turned on the TV like it was any regular night.
I stood there for a second, then stepped into view. “Where’s mine?”
Eric turned around fast, eyes wide. “Whoa! You scared me,” he laughed. “I forgot you were home.”
Then he looked at me—really looked—and… nothing. No smile. No compliment. Not even a raised eyebrow at the dress or lipstick.
“You can order something if you want,” he said, waving toward his phone. “It’s not too late. We can watch the game together.”
I stared at him, my heart sinking.
“Watch the game… takeout… is this what you planned for our anniversary?”
He shrugged. “What? It’s just dinner. We can go out this weekend if you want.”
That was it.
Ten years.
Ten years of me making it all special, and he couldn’t even remember I was upstairs.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just turned around, grabbed my coat and purse from the hook by the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
But I didn’t answer. I just walked out.
The night air was cool against my skin as I parked outside a small Italian place I’d passed a hundred times. Tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat, it always looked so cozy.
I walked in.
“Table for one,” I said softly.
The hostess, a kind-eyed woman around my age, smiled warmly. “Right this way.”
She led me to a small table near the window.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” she said with a grin. “The color looks amazing on you.”
And just like that, I felt tears sting my eyes. Someone noticed.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
The place smelled like garlic, butter, and wine. The lights were soft. People were talking and laughing all around me, and for once, I didn’t feel invisible.
“I’ll have the fettuccine,” I told the waitress when she came. “And tiramisu for dessert.”
She smiled. “Treating yourself tonight?”
I nodded. “It’s my anniversary.”
She didn’t ask anything else. I was grateful.
As I twirled pasta on my fork, I noticed a man at the bar watching me. He was about my age. Clean-shaven, kind-looking. He smiled when our eyes met.
I looked away quickly—but something inside me stirred. That tiny flutter I hadn’t felt in years.
Later, he raised his glass to me from the bar. A small toast. I smiled back, surprised by how good it felt.
When he got up to leave, he walked over to my table.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said gently. “I just wanted to say—you look lovely tonight.”
Normally, I would have pointed to my ring or mentioned my husband. But tonight? I didn’t feel married.
“Thank you,” I said. “Would you like to share dessert? I ordered way too much tiramisu.”
He smiled. “I’d love to.”
His name was Daniel. He was a high school English teacher who loved Steinbeck and hated grading papers. He’d been divorced for three years.
He was funny, polite, and actually listened when I spoke.
We didn’t talk about anything deep. Just books, food, the city, how underrated panna cotta was. But it was real. It was easy.
When the check came, he reached for it.
“Let me,” I said. “It’s my anniversary gift to myself.”
He raised his eyebrow, but didn’t ask.
As we stood outside the restaurant, he asked, “Can I get your number? Maybe we could grab coffee sometime.”
I hesitated for a moment.
Then I told him my number.
We said goodnight. He never called, and I wasn’t surprised.
He didn’t need to.
That moment was enough. I had felt seen.
The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and divorce papers I printed online.
Eric stumbled in, rubbing his eyes. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Divorce papers,” I said.
He laughed, thinking I was joking—until he saw my face.
“You can’t be serious. Over dinner? Over a burrito bowl?”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t the burrito.”
“Then what?” he snapped. “Are you seeing someone? That it?”
“No. It’s not about anyone else,” I said, voice calm. “It’s about me being invisible in this marriage. About ten years of being the only one who tries.”
“That’s not fair,” he said. “I was tired. I didn’t mean to forget. You’re really going to throw ten years away because of one mistake?”
I looked at him—really looked—and saw what I had always known deep down.
He never understood.
“It wasn’t the burrito,” I repeated softly. “It was everything before the burrito. And everything you never saw.”
I signed the papers. My hand didn’t even shake.
He cried and begged for weeks afterward. Promised change. Therapy. Flowers. Vacations. Date nights. The whole script.
But it was too late.
The truth was, I had already been alone for years.
I didn’t leave because of dinner. I didn’t leave because of Daniel.
I left because I finally realized—I deserved to be seen.
And for the first time in ten years, I didn’t feel the need to beg for it.
