For 63 Years, My Husband Gave Me Flowers Every Valentine’s Day – After He Died, Another Bouquet Arrived, Along with Keys to an Apartment That Held His Secret

For 63 years, my husband never missed Valentine's Day. Not once. After he died, I expected silence. Instead, roses appeared at my door, along with a key to an apartment he'd kept hidden for decades. What I found inside still brings me to tears.

My name is Daisy. I'm 83, and I've been a widow for four months.

My husband, Robert, proposed to me on Valentine's Day in 1962. We were in college.

He cooked dinner in our dorm's tiny shared kitchen. Spaghetti with jarred sauce. Garlic bread that was burned on one side.

I've been a widow for four months.

He gave me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper and a silver ring that cost him two weeks of dishwashing wages. From that moment on, we were never apart.

Every single Valentine's Day after that, he brought me flowers.

Sometimes it was a small bouquet of 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.

We were never apart.

He held me and said, "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. 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.

***

Robert died in the fall. Heart attack. The doctor said he didn't suffer. But I did.

The house felt too quiet without him. His slippers still sat by the bed. His coffee mug still hung on the hook in the kitchen.

He always came back with flowers.

I set two cups of tea out of habit every morning, then remembered 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 what our grandchildren were doing. About the leak in the kitchen sink I couldn't fix.

***

Valentine's Day arrived. The first one in 63 years without Robert.

I woke up that morning and just lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling.

I set two cups of tea out of habit every morning.

I finally got up and made myself tea. Sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty chair across from me. His chair.

I watched the clock tick. Listened to the house creak. Felt the weight of Robert's absence pressing down on me.

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 lying on the doormat. And an envelope. My hands shook as I picked them up.

The roses were fresh and beautiful, wrapped in brown paper tied with twine. Just like the ones Robert gave me in 1962.

I wasn't expecting anyone.

I brought them inside and set them on the table.

How was this possible?

Then I opened the envelope. Inside was a letter in Robert's handwriting. And a key.

I sat down and started reading it:

"My love, if you're reading this, it means I am no longer by your side."

I had to stop to take a 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."

"There is something I have hidden from you our entire life."

The address was written at the bottom, across town in a neighborhood I'd never been to.

What could Robert have been hiding from me all these years?

I thought about the business trips he used to take when he was younger. The late nights at the office. The phone call he once took outside in the rain.

I'd asked him about it once. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

He kissed my forehead and said, "Nothing you need to worry about."

I thought about the business trips he used to take.

Had there been someone else? A secret life I never knew about?

The thought made me sick.

I called a taxi. The driver was young and chatty. He tried to make conversation about the weather. I couldn't hear him over the roaring in my head.

We drove for nearly an hour. The neighborhoods changed. Got quieter. The buildings got older.

Finally, we stopped in front of a brick building with a green door.

The thought made me sick.

"This is it, ma'am."

I paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk for a long time, staring at that door. Part of me wanted to turn around. But I needed to know.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The first thing that hit me was a sharp smell.

Polished wood. Old paper. Something familiar but out of place.

For half a second, I couldn't identify it. Then it hit me.

Sheet music. Wood polish. The smell of a music room.

I turned on the light. And froze.

The first thing that hit me was a sharp smell.

In the center of the room stood an upright piano. Dark wood. Polished. Beautiful.

The walls were lined with shelves, filled with sheet music, recordings, and books about music theory.

On the piano bench sat more sheet music, neatly stacked.

I walked closer and picked up one of the pieces.

"Clair de Lune" by Debussy. My favorite.

I'd told Robert that once, decades ago. When we were young and I still played.

I walked closer and picked up one of the pieces.

On the music stand was another piece. "Moonlight Sonata."

Another favorite.

I looked around the room more carefully. On a small table in the corner were labeled recordings. Dated.

I picked one up. The label read: "For Daisy - December 2018."

Another: "For Daisy - March 2020."

Dozens of them, going back years.

I looked around the room more carefully.

On the same table, I found medical reports. Dated six months before Robert died.

"Diagnosis: severe heart condition.

Prognosis: limited time."

Robert had known.

Beside the medical 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 Robert's death.

He'd planned this.

Robert had known.

Next to the contract was a journal. I opened it with numb hands.

The first entry was dated 25 years ago.

"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 when she said it, but I saw the sadness in her eyes."

I remembered that conversation. We'd been cleaning out the garage when I found my old sheet music in a box. I'd flipped through it, smiled, and put it away.

I thought I'd forgotten about it. But Robert had listened.

"I saw the sadness in her eyes."

The next entry:

"I've decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family."

I started crying as I kept reading.

About his lessons:

"Signed up for piano lessons today. The instructor is half my age. She looked skeptical when I told her I'm a complete beginner."

About his failures:

"Today I tried to play a simple scale and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought."

"I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family."

About his frustrations.

"I've been at this for six months and I still can't play a simple melody without mistakes. Maybe I'm too old to learn."

About his determination:

"I'm not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won't give up on this."

About 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."

"Daisy never gave up on me."

I turned the page. The entries got 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 me yesterday why I've been gone so much. I told her I was visiting old friends. I hated lying to her. But I can't tell her yet. Not until it's finished."

"My hands shake now when I play. But I keep practicing. For her."

"This will be my last composition. I'm writing it myself. For her. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfection."

"I hated lying to her."

The last entry was dated a week before he died: "I'm out of time. I'm sorry, my love. I couldn't finish."

I closed the journal and looked at the piano. On the music stand was a piece of sheet music. Handwritten in Robert's cursive script.

The title at the top read: "For My Daisy."

I picked it up. The music was beautiful. Complex. And carefully notated.

But it stopped halfway through the second page.

The rest was blank. He'd run out of time.

It stopped halfway through the second page.

I sat down on the piano bench. It creaked softly beneath me, and a thin ribbon of sunlight through the window caught the dust in the air.

My fingers hovered over the keys.

I looked at Robert's unfinished composition. At the notes he'd written with such care.

I placed the sheet on the stand and positioned my hands over the keys. And I started to play.

The first few notes were hesitant. My fingers didn't remember at first. But then, slowly, they did.

Muscle memory from six decades ago came flooding back.

My fingers didn't remember at first.

I played the melody Robert had written. It was beautiful. Tender. Loving. Full of longing.

When I reached the place where the music stopped, I paused. Then I kept playing. I let my hands find the notes Robert hadn't had time to write.

I finished the melody. Added harmonies. Resolved the phrases. Made it complete. It took me over an hour.

When I played the final chord, I sat there for a long time with my hands still on the keys.

Then I noticed something on the piano. A small envelope tucked behind the music stand.

I played the melody Robert had written.

I opened it. Inside was a note:

"My darling Daisy,

I wanted to give you something you couldn't refuse or argue about. Something that was 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."

"Even though I'm gone, I'm still here."

I folded the letter carefully and put it in my pocket.

Then I looked around the studio one more time.

I vowed to come back. Because Robert had given me more than a secret. He'd given me back the dream.

***

I visit the studio twice a week now. 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.

Robert had given me more than a secret.

My fingers stumbled in a few places. The tempo wasn't quite right. But it was full of love.

She cried when she heard it.

Last week, I recorded my first piece in 60 years. My hands aren't as nimble as they used to be. I made mistakes. Had to start over several times. But I finished it.

I labeled the recording: "For Robert." And I placed it on the shelf next to all of his.

Now we're together again. In the only way that matters.

For 63 years, he gave me flowers. And from beyond, he gave me back the dream I'd forgotten I had.

We're together again.

Did this story remind you of something from your own life? Feel free to share it in the Facebook comments.

Here's another story: I thought marrying my childhood sweetheart at 71 was proof that love always finds its way back. Then, at the reception, a stranger approached me and said, "He's not who you think he is." She slipped me an address. I went there the next day, convinced I was about to lose everything I'd just found.