My name is Daisy. I’m 83 years old, and I’ve been a widow for four months.

Robert proposed to me on Valentine’s Day in 1962. We were just two college kids sharing a dorm kitchen that always smelled faintly of burned toast. That night he made spaghetti with jarred sauce and garlic bread that was charred on one side. He handed me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper and a silver ring he’d paid for with two weeks of dishwashing wages.

From that day forward, he never missed a Valentine’s Day. Not once.

Some years it was wildflowers he’d picked himself when money was tight. Some years it was elegant long-stemmed roses when his business was doing well. The year we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies instead of roses.

“Even in the hard years, I’m here,” he whispered when I cried into his chest.

The flowers were never just flowers. They were a promise. Through arguments, grief, illnesses, and all the ordinary storms of marriage, he always came back with flowers.

Robert died in the fall. A heart attack. The doctor said it was quick.

Quick for him.

Not for me.

The house grew unbearably quiet. His slippers stayed beside the bed. His coffee mug still hung on its hook. Every morning I set out two cups of tea out of habit before remembering there was only one pair of hands left to hold a cup.

When Valentine’s Day arrived, I expected nothing but silence.