He gave me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper and a silver ring that had cost him two weeks of dishwashing wages. From that moment on, we were inseparable.
Every Valentine’s Day after that, he brought me flowers.
Sometimes it was wildflowers when we were broke and living in our first apartment with mismatched furniture and a leaky faucet.
Sometimes it was long-stemmed roses when he got promoted.
Once, during the year we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies. I cried when I saw them.
He held me and whispered, “Even in the hard years, I’m here, my love.”
The flowers weren’t just about romance. They were proof that Robert always came back—through arguments about money, sleepless nights with sick children, and the year my mother died when I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. He always returned with flowers.
Robert died in the fall. A heart attack. The doctor said he didn’t suffer. But I did.
The house felt unbearably quiet without him. His slippers still sat by the bed. His coffee mug still hung on its hook in the kitchen. I kept setting out two cups of tea every morning, only to remember he wasn’t there to drink his.
I talked to his photograph daily: “Good morning, darling. I miss you.”
Sometimes I told him about my day, about our grandchildren, or about the leak in the kitchen sink I couldn’t fix.
Then came Valentine’s Day—the first one in 63 years without Robert.
I woke up and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I made myself tea and sat at the kitchen table, staring at his empty chair. The silence pressed down on me.
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. When I opened it, no one was there—only a bouquet of roses lying on the doormat, wrapped in brown paper tied with twine, just like the ones Robert had given me in 1962. Beside them was an envelope.
Inside was a letter in Robert’s handwriting and a key.
“My love, if you’re reading this, it means I am no longer by your side. In this envelope is the key to an apartment. There is something I have hidden from you our entire life. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do otherwise. You must go to this address.”
The address was across town, in a neighborhood I’d never visited.
I couldn’t stop wondering—had Robert been hiding another life? Another woman? The thought made me sick. Still, I called a taxi. The driver chatted about the weather, but I couldn’t hear him over the roaring in my head.
Leave a Comment