{"id":13198,"date":"2026-04-14T08:57:08","date_gmt":"2026-04-14T08:57:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/?p=13198"},"modified":"2026-04-14T08:57:08","modified_gmt":"2026-04-14T08:57:08","slug":"for-63-years-he-gave-me-flowers-every-valentines-day-even-after-he-was-gone-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/?p=13198","title":{"rendered":"After 63 Years Together, He Still Found a Way to Reach Me"},"content":{"rendered":"
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.<\/span><\/div>\n
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My name is Daisy. I’m 83, and I’ve been a widow for four months.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My husband, Robert, proposed to me on Valentine’s Day in 1962. We were in college.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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He cooked dinner in our dorm’s tiny shared kitchen. Spaghetti with jarred sauce. Garlic bread that was burned on one side.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I’ve been a widow for four months.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Every single Valentine’s Day after that, he brought me flowers.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Once, during the year we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies. I cried when I saw them.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We were never apart.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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He held me and said, “Even in the hard years, I’m here, my love.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The flowers weren’t just about romance. They were proof that Robert always came back.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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He always came back with flowers.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Robert died in the fall. Heart attack. The doctor said he didn’t suffer. But I did.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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He always came back with flowers.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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I set two cups of tea out of habit every morning, then remembered he wasn’t there to drink his.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I talked to his photograph every day. “Good morning, darling. I miss you.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Sometimes I told him about my day. About what our grandchildren were doing. About the leak in the kitchen sink I couldn’t fix.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Valentine’s Day arrived. The first one in 63 years without Robert.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I woke up that morning and just lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I set two cups of tea out of habit every morning.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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I finally got up and made myself tea. Sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty chair across from me. His chair.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I watched the clock tick. Listened to the house creak. Felt the weight of Robert’s absence pressing down on me.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Then came a sharp knock at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The roses were fresh and beautiful, wrapped in brown paper tied with twine. Just like the ones Robert gave me in 1962.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I wasn’t expecting anyone.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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I brought them inside and set them on the table.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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How was this possible?<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Then I opened the envelope. Inside was a letter in Robert’s handwriting. And a key.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I sat down and started reading it:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“My love, if you’re reading this, it means I am no longer by your side.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I had to stop to take a breath.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“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.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“There is something I have hidden from you our entire life.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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The address was written at the bottom, across town in a neighborhood I’d never been to.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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What could Robert have been hiding from me all these years?<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I’d asked him about it once. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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He kissed my forehead and said, “Nothing you need to worry about.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I thought about the business trips he used to take.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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Had there been someone else? A secret life I never knew about?<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The thought made me sick.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We drove for nearly an hour. The neighborhoods changed. Got quieter. The buildings got older.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Finally, we stopped in front of a brick building with a green door.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The thought made me sick.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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“This is it, ma’am.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The first thing that hit me was a sharp smell.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Polished wood. Old paper. Something familiar but out of place.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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For half a second, I couldn’t identify it. Then it hit me.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Sheet music. Wood polish. The smell of a music room.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I turned on the light. And froze.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The first thing that hit me was a sharp smell.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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In the center of the room stood an upright piano. Dark wood. Polished. Beautiful.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The walls were lined with shelves, filled with sheet music, recordings, and books about music theory.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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On the piano bench sat more sheet music, neatly stacked.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I walked closer and picked up one of the pieces.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“Clair de Lune”<\/i>\u00a0by Debussy. My favorite.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I’d told Robert that once, decades ago. When we were young and I still played.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I walked closer and picked up one of the pieces.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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On the music stand was another piece.\u00a0“Moonlight Sonata.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Another favorite.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I looked around the room more carefully. On a small table in the corner were labeled recordings. Dated.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I picked one up. The label read:\u00a0“For Daisy – December 2018.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Another:\u00a0“For Daisy – March 2020.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Dozens of them, going back years.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I looked around the room more carefully.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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On the same table, I found medical reports. Dated six months before Robert died.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“Diagnosis: severe heart condition.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Prognosis: limited time.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Robert had known.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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He’d planned this.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Robert had known.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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Next to the contract was a journal. I opened it with numb hands.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The first entry was dated 25 years ago.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“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><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I thought I’d forgotten about it. But Robert had listened.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“I saw the sadness in her eyes.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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The next entry:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“I’ve decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I started crying as I kept reading.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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About his lessons:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“Signed up for piano lessons today. The instructor is half my age. She looked skeptical when I told her I’m a complete beginner.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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About his failures:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“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><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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About his frustrations.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“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.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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About his determination:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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About his progress:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“Daisy never gave up on me.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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I turned the page. The entries got shorter near the end.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time. But I need to finish one more piece.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“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.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“My hands shake now when I play. But I keep practicing. For her.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“This will be my last composition. I’m writing it myself. For her. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfection.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“I hated lying to her.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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The last entry was dated a week before he died:\u00a0“I’m out of time. I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t finish.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The title at the top read:\u00a0“For My Daisy.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I picked it up. The music was beautiful. Complex. And carefully notated.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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But it stopped halfway through the second page.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The rest was blank. He’d run out of time.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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It stopped halfway through the second page.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My fingers hovered over the keys.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I looked at Robert’s unfinished composition. At the notes he’d written with such care.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I placed the sheet on the stand and positioned my hands over the keys. And I started to play.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The first few notes were hesitant. My fingers didn’t remember at first. But then, slowly, they did.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Muscle memory from six decades ago came flooding back.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My fingers didn’t remember at first.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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I played the melody Robert had written. It was beautiful. Tender. Loving. Full of longing.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I finished the melody. Added harmonies. Resolved the phrases. Made it complete. It took me over an hour.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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When I played the final chord, I sat there for a long time with my hands still on the keys.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Then I noticed something on the piano. A small envelope tucked behind the music stand.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I played the melody Robert had written.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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I opened it. Inside was a note:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“My darling Daisy,<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I wanted to give you something you couldn’t refuse or argue about. Something that was just for you.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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This piano is yours now. This studio is yours. Play again, my love.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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And know that even though I’m gone, I’m still here. In every note. In every chord. In every song.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Always yours, Robert.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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“Even though I’m gone, I’m still here.”<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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I folded the letter carefully and put it in my pocket.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Then I looked around the studio one more time.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I vowed to come back. Because Robert had given me more than a secret. He’d given me back the dream.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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***<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I visit the studio twice a week now. Sometimes I play. Sometimes I just listen to his recordings.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My daughter came with me once. I played one of Robert’s recordings for her.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Robert had given me more than a secret.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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My fingers stumbled in a few places. The tempo wasn’t quite right. But it was full of love.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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She cried when she heard it.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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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.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I labeled the recording:\u00a0“For Robert.”\u00a0<\/i>And I placed it on the shelf next to all of his.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Now we’re together again. In the only way that matters.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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For 63 years, he gave me flowers. And from beyond, he gave me back the dream I’d forgotten I had.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We’re together again.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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 … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":13196,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[24,22,20],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13198","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-family","category-inspiration","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13198","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=13198"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13198\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13199,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13198\/revisions\/13199"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/13196"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=13198"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=13198"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=13198"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}