When my six-year-old son, Leo, asked if we could save a seat at Thanksgiving dinner for “the man who always brings Mommy flowers,” I thought he must have been imagining things. But the look on my wife Megan’s face told me there was more to the story, and I was determined to find out.

Thanksgiving has always been a time of joy and togetherness in our family. This year, however, Leo’s innocent comment planted a seed of unease. It made me wonder if I really knew my wife.
Growing up, Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. My mom made a big deal out of it every year, inviting the entire extended family for a grand feast. The house was filled with the smell of roasted turkey, laughter, and way too many pumpkin pies. Those memories stayed with me, and when I married Megan, I wanted to carry on that tradition.

For the past seven years, Megan and I hosted Thanksgiving at our home. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it. Megan cooks up a storm, I pitch in with setting the table and keeping Leo entertained, and the house buzzes with warmth and love. It’s chaotic, but in the best way.

This year, we decided to keep it small—just the three of us. Life’s been stressful lately with work deadlines, school activities for Leo, and the little things that pile up when you least expect them. On top of that, I’ve been working extra hours, hoping to secure a promotion, and I’ve missed countless little moments with Megan and Leo. A quiet Thanksgiving felt like the perfect way to reconnect.

A few days before Thanksgiving, while we were double-checking our plans for dinner, Leo buzzed around us with the energy only a six-year-old can have. Suddenly, he stopped and blurted out, “Can we save a seat for the man who always brings Mommy flowers?”

I froze mid-step. Megan, holding a stack of plates, stiffened too.
“What man, buddy?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

“The one who gives Mommy flowers when you’re at work,” Leo said with a grin.
I glanced at Megan, expecting her to laugh it off. Instead, she looked at Leo with wide eyes, her silence saying more than words could.

“Oh, really?” I asked, attempting a chuckle. “What’s he talking about, Meg?”

“I-I don’t know,” Megan stammered. She turned to Leo, her voice trembling. “Sweetie, what are you talking about?”
Leo shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The man with the flowers! I saw him on the doorstep with roses. I wanted to come see, but you told me to go to my room and not bother you.”

Megan’s reaction wasn’t helping. “That’s… not true, Leo,” she said weakly, trying to sound lighthearted. “You must be imagining things, sweetie.”

“I’m not!” Leo insisted, crossing his arms defiantly. “He brought pink roses last time. You said they were your favorite!”

That night, after we put Leo to bed, I couldn’t let it go. Megan had been distant all evening.

“Megan,” I said as we sat on the couch. “What’s going on? Is there something I should know?”

She sighed deeply. “It’s nothing, Tom. I don’t know where Leo is getting this from.”

But Leo wasn’t the type to invent stories, especially ones with such detail.

“Megan,” I pressed, “if there’s something you’re not telling me, now’s the time.”

Her silence stretched for what felt like an eternity. “Let’s just drop it,” she finally said, avoiding my gaze.

The tension lingered in the days leading up to Thanksgiving, but I decided not to push further.

Thanksgiving morning arrived, and the day began as usual. Megan prepared the meal while I helped set the table. Leo watched his favorite show. Things felt almost normal until the doorbell rang.

“Who could that be?” Megan wondered aloud.

Before I could respond, Leo jumped up. “It’s him! The man with the flowers!”

My heart raced as I looked at Megan. Her face drained of color, and she stared at the door like it was about to swallow her whole.

I intercepted Leo before he could open it. On the doorstep stood a man in his late forties, holding a bouquet. His shirt bore the logo of a local flower shop.

“Hi,” he said nervously. “I know she asked for no deliveries today, but this was a last-minute order.”

I turned to Megan. “Care to explain?”

Her shoulders slumped, and she motioned for the man to come inside. He placed the flowers on a table and left.

“Megan,” I said once the door closed, “who’s been sending you flowers?”

“It’s not what you think,” she began, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for it to be a secret. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

I crossed my arms, waiting.

She sank onto the couch. “I’ve been working with a therapist,” she admitted. “Leo must’ve seen the delivery guy because she sends flowers occasionally as part of my therapy.”

I blinked. “Therapy?”

She nodded, tears brimming. “I’ve been struggling, Tom. With you working late, the financial stress, feeling like I’m failing as a mom… I needed help, and my therapist suggested small acts of kindness for myself, like fresh flowers.”

Relief and guilt washed over me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to burden you,” she whispered.

I pulled her into a hug. “You’re never a burden, Megan. I wish I’d noticed sooner.”

That Thanksgiving, we sat down as a family, more connected than ever. Sometimes, the most unexpected moments bring us closer.