For 63 years, my husband never missed a single Valentine’s Day. Not once. I knew that when he was gone, the world would feel quiet and empty. I never expected what actually happened.
After Robert died, I thought the house would be silent. Instead, roses arrived at my door, and with them, a key to an apartment he had kept secret for decades. What I found inside… still brings me to tears.
My name is Daisy. I’m 83 now, and I’ve been a widow for four months.
Robert proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, 1962, when we were both in college. I remember it like it happened yesterday. He cooked dinner in our tiny shared dorm kitchen. Spaghetti with jarred sauce. Garlic bread, slightly burned on one side.
He handed me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper and a silver ring that had cost him two whole weeks of dishwashing wages. I remember looking up at him and thinking, This is the man I’ll never let go of. From that moment on, we were inseparable.
Every single Valentine’s Day after that, he brought me flowers. Sometimes, when we were young and broke, it was just a small bunch of wildflowers in a crooked vase, sitting on our mismatched table in our first apartment with the leaky faucet.
Other times, when he got a promotion, it was long-stemmed roses, perfectly arranged.
One year, when we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies. I cried when I saw them, and he held me close. “Even in the hard years, I’m here, my love,” he whispered.
The flowers weren’t just flowers. They were proof. Proof that Robert always came back—through arguments about money, through sleepless nights with sick children, through the year my mother died and I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. No matter what, he always returned with flowers.
Robert passed away that fall. Heart attack. The doctor said he didn’t suffer, but I did. Every corner of our house felt painfully quiet. His slippers still sat by the bed. His coffee mug still hung on the hook in the kitchen.
Every morning, out of habit, I’d set two cups of tea, then remember he wasn’t there to drink his.
I talked to his photograph, every day. “Good morning, darling. I miss you.” Sometimes, I would tell him about my day, about the grandchildren, about the leak in the kitchen sink I couldn’t fix. It felt like talking to the air, but somehow it kept him alive in my heart.
Valentine’s Day arrived—the first one in 63 years without Robert. I lay in bed that morning, staring at the ceiling, my body heavy with absence. I made myself tea and sat at the kitchen table, staring at his empty chair.
Then came a sharp knock at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone.
When I opened it, no one was there. Just a bouquet of roses, perfectly fresh, tied with twine and wrapped in brown paper, lying on the doormat. Alongside it was an envelope. My hands shook as I picked them up.
Inside the envelope was a letter, in Robert’s handwriting. And a key.
I sat down and read:
“My love, if you are 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 could do no other. You must go to this address.”
My heart raced. Something he hid from me? All these years?
The address was across town, in a neighborhood I had never been to. My mind raced. I thought about his business trips, the late nights at the office, the phone call he once took outside in the rain.
I remembered asking him once, “Is there something you’re not telling me?” And he had kissed my forehead, smiling softly. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he said.
A cold dread ran through me. Could there have been someone else? A secret life I never knew? The thought made my stomach twist.
I called a taxi, my hands trembling. The driver tried to chat about the weather, but I couldn’t hear him over the pounding of my own heart. We drove for nearly an hour, the streets changing from busy avenues to quiet, older neighborhoods.
Finally, we stopped in front of a brick building with a green door. I hesitated. Part of me wanted to turn around. But I needed to know.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. A sharp smell hit me immediately: polished wood, old paper, something familiar but out of place. Sheet music. Wood polish. A music room.
The light revealed an upright piano in the center of the room, dark polished wood, gleaming as if it had been waiting just for me. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with sheet music, recordings, and books about music theory.
On the piano bench lay neatly arranged sheets. I picked up one. “Clair de Lune” by Debussy. My favorite. My fingers tingled.
I walked closer. On the music stand was another piece: “Moonlight Sonata.” Another favorite.
On a small table in the corner were labeled recordings, dated over the years: “For Daisy—December 2018,” “For Daisy—March 2020.” Dozens of them. He had been recording these secretly, for me.
Then I noticed medical reports, dated six months before his death. Severe heart condition. Limited time.
Next to the reports lay a contract with a building caretaker, detailing instructions to deliver the flowers and the envelope to me on the first Valentine’s Day after his death. He had planned this. He had known.
Beside that, a journal. The first entry was 25 years old:
“Today, Daisy mentioned her old piano. She said, ‘I used to dream of being a pianist. Playing in concert halls. But life had other plans.’ She laughed, but I saw the sadness in her eyes. I’ve decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
I read on, tears streaming. His first attempts at lessons, his frustrations:
“Today I tried to play a simple scale. My fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought.”
His determination:
“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”
His progress:
“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”
And finally, the last entries, dated just a week before he died:
“The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time. But I need to finish one more piece. My hands shake now when I play, but I keep practicing. For her. This will be my last composition. I want it perfect. She deserves perfection.”
I closed the journal, numb, and turned to the piano. On the music stand rested a handwritten composition: “For My Daisy.” Beautiful, complex, full of care. But it stopped halfway through the second page. He had run out of time.
I sat down. Sunlight streamed through the window, dust dancing in golden rays. My fingers hovered over the keys, hesitant at first, then slowly, the muscle memory from six decades ago returned.
I played the melody he had written, tender, loving, full of longing. When the music stopped, I paused… then kept going, letting my hands find the notes Robert hadn’t had time to write.
I added harmonies, resolved the phrases, and made it complete. Over an hour passed, but when I finished, I sat there, breathless, hands still on the keys.
Behind the music stand, I found a small envelope. Inside:
*”My darling Daisy,
I wanted to give you something you couldn’t refuse or argue about. Something just for you. This piano is yours now. This studio is yours. Play again, my love. And know that even though I’m gone, I’m still here. In every note. In every chord. In every song.
I loved you from the moment I saw you in the college library with sheet music tucked under your arm. I loved you at 20 and I love you at 80. I will love you forever.
Always yours, Robert.”*
Even though I’m gone, I’m still here.
I folded the letter carefully and put it in my pocket. I looked around the studio one more time, vowed to return. Robert had given me more than a secret—he had given me back my dream.
Now, I visit the studio twice a week. Sometimes I play. Sometimes I just sit and listen to his recordings.
My daughter came with me once. I played one of Robert’s recordings. My fingers stumbled in a few places. The tempo wasn’t perfect. But the love in each note was unmistakable. She cried when she heard it.
Last week, I recorded my first piece in 60 years. My hands aren’t as nimble as they once were. I made mistakes. Started over several times. But I finished it. I labeled it: “For Robert” and placed it on the shelf next to his recordings.
Now, in a way that matters, we’re together again.
For 63 years, he gave me flowers. And from beyond, he gave me back the dream I had forgotten I had.
We’re together again.