When my fiancé threw my handmade gift in the trash and laughed about it with his friends, he thought he was being funny. He had no idea that what he did would cost him something he wasn’t expecting. Greg and I had been dating for nine months when he proposed.
We met at a college party, and I was instantly smitten. He was charming, funny, and had this way of making me feel like I was the only girl in the room. “You’re different from other girls,” he used to tell me.
“You actually get my sense of humor.”
I thought that was romantic. Now I realize it was probably a warning sign. When he got down on one knee nine months into our relationship, I said yes without hesitation.
My friends squealed with excitement, while my mom cried happy tears over FaceTime. Everything felt perfect. Greg seemed to love all the little things I did for him.
When I’d leave cute notes in his car, he’d text me heart emojis. When I’d surprise him with his favorite cookies, he’d kiss my forehead and call me his “sweet girl.”
So when his birthday rolled around, I wanted to do something really meaningful. I’m not exactly rich because I work part-time at a bookstore while finishing college.
So, buying something expensive wasn’t an option. But I’ve always been a sentimental person anyway. “I want to make him something from the heart,” I told my best friend Sarah while we browsed through craft supplies at Target.
“That’s so sweet,” she said. “What are you thinking?”
I decided on a scrapbook. I spent hours collecting photos from our dates, ticket stubs from every movie we’d seen together, and those little post-it notes I’d written him over the months.
I even included inside jokes and doodles of things that made us laugh. The cover took me the longest. I hand-lettered his name in fancy calligraphy and decorated it with little hearts.
It wasn’t professional-looking or anything, but it was made with pure love. “This is beautiful, Alice,” my roommate Emma said when she saw me working on it at our kitchen table at midnight. “He’s going to love this.”
“I hope so,” I said, carefully placing another photo.
“I just want him to know how much these nine months have meant to me.”
When I finally gave it to him on his birthday, my heart was pounding. We were alone in his apartment, and I watched his face carefully as he opened it. “Wow,” he said, flipping through the pages slowly.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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