For 63 years, my husband never missed Valentine’s Day. Not once. Not a single year. After he died, I expected nothing—just quiet, empty silence. But instead, something miraculous happened. Roses appeared at my door.
And along with them… a key. A key to an apartment he had kept hidden from me for decades. What I discovered inside that place still brings me to tears.
My name is Daisy. I’m 83 years old, and I’ve been a widow for four months.
My husband, Robert, proposed to me on Valentine’s Day in 1962. We were just college students.
I remember that day clearly. He cooked dinner in our tiny dorm kitchen. Spaghetti from a jar. Garlic bread that was burnt on one side.
He gave me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper, and a silver ring that had cost him two weeks of dishwashing wages. He looked at me nervously. “Will you marry me?” he asked.
I said yes, of course. From that moment on, we were never apart.
Every Valentine’s Day after that, without fail, he brought me flowers.
Sometimes it was a small bunch of wildflowers when we were poor, living in our first tiny apartment with mismatched furniture and a leaky faucet. Sometimes it was long-stemmed, perfect roses when he got promoted at work.
Once, during the year we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies. I cried when I saw them. I remember him holding me and whispering, “Even in the hard years, I’m here, my love.”
Those flowers weren’t just romance. 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.
He always came back. With flowers.
Then, in the fall, Robert died. A heart attack. The doctor said he didn’t suffer. But I did.
The house was too quiet. His slippers still sat by the bed. His coffee mug still hung on the hook in the kitchen.
I kept setting two cups of tea out every morning, out of habit. Then I would remember: he wasn’t there to drink his.
I talked to his photograph every day. “Good morning, darling. I miss you.” Sometimes I told him about my day. About our grandchildren. About the leaky sink I couldn’t fix.
Then came the first Valentine’s Day in 63 years without him. I woke up and just lay there, staring at the ceiling. My heart ached. I made tea, sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty chair across from me—his chair. The house felt like it was holding its breath.
And then—there was a knock at the door. Sharp. Unexpected.
I opened it. No one. Just a bouquet of roses lying on the doormat. And an envelope. My hands trembled as I picked them up.
The roses were fresh, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine—just like the ones Robert had given me in 1962.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
I brought them inside and set them on the table. How was this possible?
I opened the envelope. Inside was a letter in Robert’s handwriting. And a key.
I sat down, shaking, and began to read:
“My love, if you are reading this, it means I am no longer by your side.”
I stopped to catch my breath.
“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.
What could Robert have been hiding? I thought about the business trips he took when he was younger. The late nights at the office. The phone call he once took outside in the rain.
I’d asked him once, “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He kissed my forehead and said, “Nothing you need to worry about.”
But now, my stomach twisted with fear. Had there been someone else? A secret life I never knew about? The thought made me sick.
I called a taxi. The driver chatted about the weather, but I couldn’t hear him over the roar in my head. We drove for nearly an hour. Neighborhoods grew quieter, buildings older.
Finally, we stopped in front of a brick building with a green door.
“This is it, ma’am,” the driver said.
I paid him and stood frozen on the sidewalk. Part of me wanted to turn back. But I needed to know.
I unlocked the door. The first thing hit me—a sharp, familiar smell. Polished wood. Old paper. A scent that tugged at my memory.
Sheet music. A piano. A music room.
I turned on the light and froze.
In the center of the room was an upright piano. Dark wood, polished to perfection. Shelves lined the walls, filled with sheet music, recordings, and music theory books.
On the piano bench, neatly stacked, were more sheets.
I walked closer and picked one up. “Clair de Lune” by Debussy. My favorite. I had mentioned it to Robert decades ago.
On the music stand was another piece: “Moonlight Sonata.” Another of my favorites.
I looked more carefully. On a small table were labeled recordings, dated over the years:
“For Daisy – December 2018”
“For Daisy – March 2020”
Dozens of them, going back years.
I found medical reports too, dated six months before Robert died.
“Diagnosis: severe heart condition. Prognosis: limited time.”
Robert had known.
Beside the reports was a contract with the building caretaker, detailing instructions to deliver the flowers and envelope to me on the first Valentine’s Day after his death. He had planned this.
Next to it lay a journal. I opened it with trembling hands.
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 remembered that day, cleaning out the garage, flipping through old sheet music. I thought I had forgotten. But Robert had noticed.
“I’ve decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
I began reading about his lessons, his failures, his determination:
“Signed up for piano lessons today. The instructor is half my age and looked skeptical.”
“Today I tried a simple scale, and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought.”
“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”
“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”
The entries grew shorter near the end.
“The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time. But I need to finish one more piece.”
“Daisy asked yesterday why I’ve been gone so much. I lied, but I couldn’t tell her yet—not until it was finished.”
“My hands shake now when I play, but I keep practicing. For her.”
“This will be my last composition. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfection.”
The last entry, a week before he died:
“I’m out of time. I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t finish.”
I closed the journal, staring at the piano. On the music stand lay the final sheet, titled:
“For My Daisy”
The music was exquisite, carefully notated… but it stopped halfway through the second page. He had run out of time.
I sat down on the bench. Sunlight poured through the window, dust dancing in the air. My fingers hovered over the keys. Slowly, they remembered. Muscle memory from sixty years ago flooded back.
I played the melody Robert had written. Tender, loving, full of longing. When I reached the place where it stopped, I paused… then kept going. I added the notes, the harmonies, resolved the phrases. It took over an hour, but I finished it.
As I played the final chord, I noticed a small envelope tucked behind the music stand.
I opened it. 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 that college library with sheet music tucked under your arm. I loved you when you were 20 and when you were 80. I’ll love you forever.
Always yours, Robert.”*
I folded the letter, put it in my pocket, and looked around the studio one last time. Robert had given me more than a secret. He had given me back the dream I had forgotten.
Now, I visit the studio twice a week. Sometimes I play. Sometimes I just listen to his recordings.
My daughter came with me once. I played one of Robert’s recordings for her. My fingers stumbled a few times, tempo was off, but the music was full of love. She cried.
Last week, I recorded my first piece in sixty years. Mistakes, restarts, but I finished it. I labeled it: “For Robert.” And placed it on the shelf next to all of his.
Now, in a way that matters most, we’re together again.
For 63 years, he gave me flowers. And from beyond, he gave me back the dream I thought I’d lost.
We’re together again.