I smoothed my tie outside Le Petit Château, anticipation twisting in my chest. It was our 10th anniversary, and I’d spared no detail: candles, champagne, table for two at the restaurant where it all began. Fiona walked in, auburn hair shimmering—but her eyes were distant, phone in hand.
“Everything okay?” I asked, heart sinking.
“Yeah… just checking something,” she murmured.
Dinner began awkwardly. She fidgeted with her phone. A flirting notification, another prank video link. I tried to connect, but distraction lingered in the air.
My frustration had been building for weeks. Her pranks once made me laugh—like fake spiders or surprise jumps from the shower curtain. But now they were emotional landmines—twisting our household into chaos.
When the waitress offered our anniversary champagne, I reached for Fiona’s hand. “Can we just be present tonight?”
Her voice wavered. “Sorry, I… just want to film the perfect reaction.” On cue, she pulled out her phone and began recording. For what? A social media post?
I stood abruptly. “Dinner’s over.”
In the parking lot, my mother-in-law’s eyes brimmed with disappointment, but she’d heard enough. I poured out my frustration—our anniversary reduced to a performance. Her silence cut deeper than any insult.
Three days later, she pulled me aside gently. “Fiona’s gone too far,” she said, voice shaking. “I wouldn’t blame you… if you wanted a divorce.”
Her words hit like a lifeline—or a charge. Was it worth ending ten years over this? Yet, that honesty sparked something.
I invited Fiona back that night, asked for real conversation—with no cameras, no pranks. And for once, she paused. We talked. We apologized.
A week later, we went back to Le Petit Château—no show, no surprise videos. Just us. The candlelight flickered softly, and she finally looked at me with presence again.
We didn’t solve everything. But we reclaimed our anniversary—not as a staged moment, but as a reminder: marriage is worth being present for.
