I have a secret I’ve carried for months, a truth that clawed its way out of the most insignificant detail, leaving destruction in its wake. It started on our tenth anniversary. The night of the Not-Snail.
He was everything I thought I wanted. Ten years, a lifetime carved out of shared dreams and comfortable silences. We had our rituals, our inside jokes, our special day. Our anniversary. And every year, I’d prepare the most intricate dish, a culinary masterpiece designed to celebrate us. He loved it. And there was one specific, wildly expensive, incredibly niche ingredient that he adored above all else. A delicacy. We called it ‘the snail.’ He was utterly obsessed with it, and I… I always made sure to act just as enthusiastic. It made him happy, and that was enough.
He called around dinner time, his voice tight, apologetic. A work emergency. My stomach churned. The dish, waiting, almost finished. But the snail… that was his part. He promised he’d pick it up, no matter how late, no matter the cost. He sounded so earnest. So, I waited. And waited. He finally stumbled through the door just past midnight, exhausted, smelling faintly of stale coffee and something floral that wasn’t mine. And his hands? Empty.
My heart sank. Not just for the dish, for the broken ritual. He saw my face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, pulling me into a hug. ‘Everything was a blur. The store was closed. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.’ I nodded, trying to be understanding. He was stressed. It was just one night. I served the meal, the substitute I’d cobbled together, a pale imitation of our tradition. He ate it, slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Delicious,’ he murmured, reaching for my hand. He didn’t even flinch.
And that’s when it hit me. That’s when the first, insidious thought slithered into my mind. He didn’t notice. Or, worse, he didn’t care. He, the self-proclaimed connoisseur of our special ‘snail,’ who could always tell the slightest nuance in flavor, texture, origin. He didn’t notice that it wasn’t the snail. Or maybe, he was just as good at pretending as I was.
Over the next few weeks, I couldn’t shake it. Little things started to prickle at my carefully constructed world. His phone, always facedown. The way he’d suddenly ‘forget’ things I’d told him. The increasing frequency of those ‘late nights at the office.’ I tried to tell myself it was stress, that I was being paranoid. Ten years. He loves me. We’re solid. But the seed of doubt, planted by his Not-Snail reaction, had taken root.
Then, the receipt. Tucked into his work bag, a small, crinkled paper from that very specific, very expensive specialty store. The date? Our anniversary. The item? A box of those rare, coveted ‘snails.’ My breath hitched. He had bought it. He had bought the ingredient. But not for our dinner. I felt a cold dread spread through my chest. I confronted him, the receipt shaking in my hand. His eyes widened. He stammered, ‘A client… an important client…’ The words died on his lips. I saw the lie, naked and ugly, in his eyes. My world shattered. He was cheating.
I spent days in a blur of tears and anger. The ‘Not-Snail’ night, the lie, the betrayal. It was all a painful echo. I kept replaying his nonchalant ‘delicious.’ That was the part that truly stung. Why lie about the snail, when the bigger lie was so much worse? I needed answers, even if they destroyed me further. I drove to the specialty store, the one he’d frequented for our anniversaries, the one that held the key to his betrayal. The young woman behind the counter remembered him.
Her smile was too bright, too innocent. ‘Oh, your husband! Yes, he was in here on Tuesday, just before closing. He bought… let’s see… two whole boxes of those special escargot. Said it was for a really special anniversary dinner, sounded so sweet. Said he was finally going to share his true passion with someone who really appreciated it. Someone who wasn’t afraid to truly indulge.’ She beamed at me. ‘He was so excited!’
TWO BOXES. Not one, like he usually bought for us. Not for just him. Two. Enough for a grand celebration. For two. My mind REELED. ‘Someone who really appreciated it.’ The words echoed, a cruel, mocking laugh. I never really appreciated it. I only pretended. I only swallowed the chewy, buttery mouthfuls with a forced smile because he loved them so much. I thought I was being a good partner, sacrificing my distaste for his joy. I thought I was making him happy. But he knew. ALL ALONG, HE KNEW. He knew I was faking it.
The ‘Not-Snail’ wasn’t just that he didn’t bring the ingredient to me that night. It was that the ingredient itself, our special tradition, the thing I thought bound us, was a lie built on my pretense and his quiet judgment. He didn’t just find someone else; he found someone who genuinely shared the very thing I always faked. He didn’t forget the snail; he was preparing it with someone who truly loved it, who truly saw him in that specific, niche passion. And he left me with the cold, bitter taste of a fake snail, and the realization that the betrayal wasn’t just his. It was mine too, for never being truly authentic, for trying so hard to be the ‘perfect’ partner that I lost myself, and eventually, I lost him to someone who didn’t have to pretend. The ‘Not-Snail’ was me. I was the one who wasn’t truly there for him, not in the way he needed, not in the way she was. And that is the most heartbreaking twist of all.
