Thanksgiving had always been a time of warmth and family in our home. But this year, my six-year-old son Leo’s innocent question flipped everything upside down. “Can we save a seat for the man who always brings Mommy flowers?” I froze. My wife, Megan, did too. Leo described a man delivering pink roses when I wasn’t home—how Megan sent him to his room that day. Megan brushed it off, but her shaky voice and nervous glance told another story. I trusted Megan completely—until that moment. That night, I confronted her, but she insisted Leo must be confused. Still, the doubt lingered. Then came Thanksgiving morning. Just as we were setting the table,
the doorbell rang. Leo rushed to the door shouting, “It’s him!” I beat him there and opened it to find a man with a bouquet—wearing a local flower shop’s logo. “I was told not to deliver today, but it was a last-minute special order,” he explained. Megan’s face went pale. Inside, I pressed her for the truth. She finally broke down and confessed: she’d been secretly making flower arrangements and selling them through a shop to help with money. She didn’t tell me because she didn’t,