You met Harry in an art gallery, fresh out of college, young, idealistic, still finding your place in the world. He was nearly fifty, already wildly successful, charming in a quiet, magnetic way. Despite the age gap, you found yourself drawn to him. He had the life experience, the patience, the stability you craved. You felt lucky to be loved by someone like him.

Dating him felt like stepping into a fairytale: the fancy dinners, the thoughtful gifts, the way he made the world seem less chaotic. On Valentine’s Day, he proposed in the most cliché way, diamond ring, upscale restaurant, all eyes on you. You said yes without hesitation.

After the wedding, you moved into his luxurious penthouse, determined to make it feel like home. You filled the cold marble space with warmth. Fresh flowers, soft rugs, dinners cooked with care. You tried to be the perfect wife. You listened to his business stories, learned his preferences, built your world around him.

At first, he noticed. He thanked you. appreciated you, loved you.

But time changed things. Maybe it was the years between you, or the lives he’d already lived before you came along. The warmth faded. The conversations shortened. Your efforts went unseen. Arguments started, small things, petty things. And always, after, came the famcy gifts: handbags, jewelry, quick fixes to deeper cracks, like comforting a child with their favorite toys.

You still loved him. Or maybe, you loved who he was in the beginning.

Tonight was your third anniversary. You made his favorite dishes, wore the dress he once adored, set the table with roses and wine. You waited at the door like a child.

When he finally walked in, he looked around and said, “You didn’t have to do all this.” No smile. No kiss. No happy anniversary. Just another evening. Just another dinner.

He didn’t celebrate your love. He tolerated it.