I thought we were solid — 27 years, three kids, and a quiet kind of love that looked like forever. Then, on Valentine’s Day, he gave me a letter. And by the time I reached the final line, I knew everything had changed.
Not with a bang… but with a truth I couldn’t unhear.
I don’t know when Valentine’s Day lost its spark in our house.
It used to be something loud and messy; balloons tied to kitchen chairs, chocolate smudges on cheeks, and children giggling through frosting.
There was the year my husband, Gideon, had flowers delivered to the school office just because I’d mentioned missing the scent of fresh peonies.
I was 35 back then, wearing a sweatshirt and smudged sunglasses, yelling at middle schoolers on a track field. He’d sent a note that said:
“Even when you’re exhausted, you’re still the most beautiful woman in any room.”
That was the kind of man he was.
Gideon was predictable in the way that made you feel safe.
He was always observing and always showing up.
**
This year, the house was silent. I had just turned 53 years old, and we’d been married for 27 years. The twins, Sam and Sienna, were away at college.
Our oldest, Micaela, was planning her wedding.
The house was still, but not peaceful. It felt like something was shifting beneath the floorboards, and neither of us wanted to name it.
Gideon was already at the table when I came down, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea. His eyes had that faraway look again, the one I’d noticed more often lately.
And sometimes I’d catch him staring at the walls like he expected them to speak.
“Happy Valentine’s,” I said, easing into the chair across from him.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small square box, setting it gently on the table between us.
Inside was a single dried rose.
“What’s this?” I asked.
He exhaled slowly.
“This is from our first Valentine’s Day together, Jo,” he said.
“You were wearing that blue sweater that swallowed your hands. We ate spicy Indian takeout on the floor of your dorm. And you gave me this rose.”
“I kept it.”
Something caught in my throat.
It was the kind of ache that makes you want to both laugh and cry. I didn’t say anything right away; I just held the box carefully, like it might disintegrate if I breathed too hard.
Then he stood and walked to the kitchen drawer — the one where we kept bills, insurance documents, and copies of the kids’ birth certificates. From inside, he pulled out a thick envelope.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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