My Van Halen Valentine
Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” played in my mind whenever I saw my son’s dashing drama teacher. I was a single mother, invisible in the crowd of parents after every school play. One lonely Valentine’s night, I went to my son’s rehearsal of “Romeo and Juliet.” I smiled at Mr. Fuller like a nervous teenager. During a break, he sat next to me and said, “Where is your Valentine tonight?” Turns out, he was right beside me. We married two years later, blaring Van Halen out the window as we drove off to our honeymoon through the streets of Birmingham. — Julie Fuller
Flowers from My Father
From the ages of 23 to 33, I received flowers from my parents every Valentine’s Day. Perhaps they took pity on me, as my friends paired off and I remained single. Or perhaps it was my father’s way of healing our unspoken divide. He was an immigrant from India who wanted me to preserve Gujarati culture and find financial independence, and I was a rebellious daughter who wanted creative freedom and shunned the hyphenated identity that comes with being second-generation. I believe the flowers were my father’s way of saying, “I love you for who you are, always.” — Nidhi R. Mehta
‘Just Like You’
Aleks and I were friends, then best friends, then something exhilarating and golden. We joked that we were dating so often that people believed us. Instead of correcting them, we walked around our high school holding hands and fantasized about buying a house together in Tennessee. On Valentine’s Day in 2020, Aleks gave me a postcard of a Tennessee mansion. The caption declared it beautiful; she circled the word and wrote, “just like you.” Three years later, that postcard hangs beside my bed, and I feel lucky to be in love with the only girl who has called me beautiful. — Ella Sherman
Peaches’ Last Message
Grandma Peaches always loved Valentine’s Day. In 2008, she enlisted two of her adult granddaughters, Rebecca and Judith, to help her craft handmade cards for all 21 of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Overcoming both frailty and dementia, Peaches sat up straight at her table and signed each card. On Feb. 14 that year, I received a call as I headed into yoga class. Grandma Peaches had left this earth. Later that day, my card arrived, carrying her final message of love. — Brenda Bernstein
