He Never Missed Valentine’s Day — Until the Year He Did Something Even Greater
My name is Daisy. I am 83 years old, and I have been a widow for four months.
Four months is barely a breath when measured against sixty-three years of marriage. And yet it has stretched endlessly — wide and hollow — like a house with every window open in winter.
Robert proposed on Valentine’s Day in 1962.
We were twenty, sharing a cramped student apartment with a kitchen that always smelled faintly of burnt toast. That night he insisted on cooking. The spaghetti was uneven, the garlic bread half charred, and the candle sat in an empty soda bottle.
His hands trembled as he held out a simple silver ring.
“I don’t have much yet,” he said. “But I will. And I want to build it with you.”
The Flowers That Meant More Than Flowers
Some years were wildflowers picked from roadside ditches when money was tight. Some years were long-stemmed roses delivered when his business was thriving. One year, after we lost our second baby, he brought daisies instead.
“Even in the hard years,” he whispered, “I’m here.”
