My husband planned a Valentine’s Day getaway for the two of us. The plan was to go to work, meet in town afterwards, and head to our hideout, returning the next morning. However, in the early hours of February 14th, 2023, I received a call from my elder brother informing me that my mom had passed away.

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She had only been sick for two days—suffering from a headache and body pains. She was taken to the hospital and given medication. She seemed to be feeling better until she passed away on the 14th. I was at work when I got the news, and I lost all composure. I threw myself on the floor and began sobbing uncontrollably. I called my husband and told him what had happened. He came to pick me up from the office, and we went home to assess the situation.

I cried the entire way to my mom’s house. Everyone was there, grieving. I couldn’t hold myself together. As the lastborn, you can imagine the bond I shared with my mom. Valentine’s Day and our plans for the night were the furthest things from my mind. It was a red day for me—not the romantic red of Valentine’s Day, but the red of mourning.

When we returned home that evening, I was slightly calmer, but I knew it would be a long, difficult night. My husband seemed prepared for it. He cooked something for me, but I couldn’t eat. He tried to feed me, but it felt like he was forcing the food down my throat.

At 10 p.m., he said, “Let’s step outside for some fresh air. The air here is contaminated with your tears.”

We ended up at the beach. Despite the late hour, it was still lively. We found a quiet spot and sat on the sand, watching the waves come and go. Surprisingly, I felt a sense of calm. As the night deepened, the noise from nearby parties faded until the only sound was the waves crashing against the shore.

I rested my head on my husband’s shoulder, sobbing quietly—just tears without sound. Eventually, I dozed off. My husband didn’t move or try to wake me. I fell asleep on his shoulder and woke up later with my head on his lap. I asked what time it was, and he said it was 1 a.m. He asked, “Should we go home?”* I replied, *“Are you scared?”

He offered me his shoulder again. As I was dozing off, I heard him say, “Put your head on my thighs, or you might get a neck ache.”

We stayed there for another hour. I wished we could have remained there all night, but it felt selfish to have a place to rest while my husband sat still like a statue. On our way home, I told him, “By this time, we would have been having fun at that place. Oh, death.” He replied, “Death happens once, but Valentine’s Day comes every year. There’s more to come.”

Valentine’s Day has never been the same for me since. It’s a day for love, but for me, it’s the day I lost my first love. Whenever I hear about Valentine’s Day, I think of my mom rather than death. Last year, the flowers we bought ended up on her grave. In the evening, we went to the same beach and sat in the same spot. This time, I didn’t cry, nor did I sleep. Instead, I was filled with positivity and gratitude. My mom’s death brought my husband and me closer than we had ever been.

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Using his lap and shoulder as a place to sleep? That had never happened before that day. We weren’t even touchy-feely, let alone vulnerable in each other’s presence. Now, we’re two different people. We love openly and are expressive about it. I know he’ll always be there for me, no matter what, and he’ll give me his shoulder when I need it most.

This year, we won’t mourn. We’ll go to the place we couldn’t visit two years ago. We’ll put the past behind us and let love be love because that’s all we have now.

—Fatima

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