At first, I thought it was our little joke. I would hunt around my apartment for the most ridiculous container for them—empty coffee canisters, Diet Coke bottles, and, once, a whole saucepan—and put them in a place of honor in the living room for him to find. At first, Frederick had played along, egging me on . . . but after a few weeks, the flowers stopped coming. And then one day, when we were out to eat, he’d told me that I was ungrateful. “I bet every woman in this room would love to get flowers from their man,” he’d insisted, and I realized that, all along, he hadn’t been getting those
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Ugh
