Red Hearts and Birthday Candles

Valentine’s Day has always been complicated for me.

It’s Robert’s birthday.

Even when he was alive, the day had layers. For the first few years we were married, he didn’t want to celebrate Valentine’s Day at all. It was his birthday, and he felt the day already belonged to him. Fair enough. He was a little selfish about it, the way people can be when the cake already has their name on it.

He didn’t love the idea of sharing his birthday with a holiday that came with pink cards and dinner expectations. Eventually, he came around. He didn’t wake up one year deeply invested in Valentine’s Day, he simply came to see that his birthday didn’t have to stand alone, that the day had room for more than one reason to celebrate. A birthday and a date night. A cake and a card. It took him a few years, but he figured it out.

After he died, February 14th changed completely. The first couple of years, Emmy and I bought a heart-shaped ice cream cake (his favorite) and sang “Happy Birthday” to a man who wasn’t there. I thought it was the right thing to do. It felt loyal, like we were honoring him.

After a while, I started to see that it wasn’t helping her. She didn’t understand why we were singing to a picture. It felt heavy. Forced. Almost cruel in a way I hadn’t intended. I had been trying to keep him present; instead, I was anchoring the day to something she couldn’t understand yet.

Those early Valentine’s Days were fragile. There weren’t dramatic scenes or constant tears, but the surface felt thin, like it wouldn’t take much to break through it. A casual “Happy Valentine’s Day,” a well-meaning attempt to cheer me up, even a store display dripping in red glitter could catch me off guard. The day carried more weight than it showed, and it didn’t take much for that weight to press straight through.

Over time, the edges softened. I stopped buying the cake and trying to stage a moment that didn’t feel true anymore. I let the day become quieter.

After more than twenty years, I still pause and acknowledge him. I still mark the fact that he was born on Valentine’s Day, a detail he used to guard fiercely as if the entire holiday had been designed to compete with him.

Now I can hold both without feeling like I have to stage-manage the day. A memory can sit beside a present moment. I don't have to force the day into something tidy.

February 14th is still complicated. Red hearts show up in stores in early January, and suddenly you're surrounded by reminders that everyone else gets to have a valentine. The day can feel like an assault, especially in the early years when you're just trying to survive winter.

This can be a difficult holiday for a widow. Hiding from grocery store displays makes perfect sense. Muting social media for 48 hours is smart. Making a plan or making no plan at all - both work. Crying in the bathroom between meetings, ordering pizza and pretending February 14th doesn't exist - whatever gets you through.

The day will come and go whether you participate or not. You'll wake up on February 15th, and the worst will be over for another year… and all that chocolate will be half price!

With Grace for the Mess,

~Stef