I was standing in my kitchen sorting through the sea of junk mail and cradling my newborn son when I saw it — a dark red envelope lying face down on the ivory countertop. Flipping it over, I froze in disbelief at my father’s name in bold black letters at the top.
It was a Valentine’s Day card from my dad. He had died just days before. The last time I saw him before he passed away, he could barely walk down the hall, much less write a card.
I turned to my husband, my voice barely audible, “How is this even possible?”
The tradition of getting cards from my dad began when I went off to college. My parents divorced when I was little, and I grew up with my mom. My relationship with my dad grew stronger my freshman year. I felt homesick, so he started mailing small packages to me. I especially looked forward to Valentine’s Day because I knew he’d send something special. It might be a teddy bear or candy hearts, but there was always a handwritten message.
A notoriously closed-off man, my dad only seemed able to share his feelings with his cards and packages, filling in the void of silence between us.
After I graduated, we began meeting for monthly dinners at a restaurant overlooking the river. We stood in line for the salad bar, filling our plates to the top, perching ourselves in the window-side booth, watching the boats pass by at sunset. He listened intently as I rambled on about work and life, nodding and offering reassurance. He never talked about himself or his health problems, even as his fatigue became obvious. After dinner, he’d walk me to my car, place his arm around my shoulder and kiss me briefly on the cheek. “Don’t forget to call me when you get home,” he’d say.
When my dad’s health began to decline, I cared for him. He battled to get up in the morning, often waking with swelling in his legs and feet. Even a simple task like taking the elevator down to the mailroom was taxing. He struggled to sleep and was always short of breath. I’d try to ease his stress by doing his grocery shopping or driving him to appointments. During my frequent visits, he’d listen and nod, but didn’t say much. It reminded me of our one-sided conversations during our monthly dinners, before he got sick. Each time we said goodbye, just as we’d always done, I’d wrap my arms around him in a hug. He’d kiss my cheek and smile, and then he’d say, “Please text me when you get home.”
In his last year of his life, my father was admitted to the cardiac unit almost monthly, after refusing to take his heart medications on a regular basis. The distinctive hospital smell permeating his room turned my stomach every time I was there — a mixture of hand sanitizer and rubber from the staff’s latex gloves. I sat through conversations with his doctors, making sure he recorded every detail of their evaluations in his black leather-bound notebook, written with his favorite pen. As I prepared to leave each night, I’d lean in for a hug and ask, “Do you need anything before I go?” He’d shake his head “no” and say, “Be sure to call me when you get home.”
A few days before my dad passed away, the hospice staff told me his body was shutting down from complications of heart failure and colorectal cancer. When I went to his apartment to say my final goodbye, I hugged him gently, but also felt afraid to let him go. Then, I whispered, “I love you, Dad.” He nodded, as his frail body mustered the strength to return the hug.
I used to think when someone dies, the relationship ends, and the love and connection you shared disappears. But I was wrong.
Finding my last Valentine’s Day card from my dad after he died made me realize his words not only bridged a connection between us, but also helped me feel his presence again.
The love we had was transformed and continued on, even in my grief.
As I pulled the white card from the dark red envelope, I heard my father’s voice: “Lisa, You bring so much joy, beauty and love to my life. Happy Valentine’s Day with all my love. Love You Always, Dad.”
I held it tightly against my chest, replaying in my mind the last three words he’d written in his elegant cursive — “Love You Always.” He’d never expressed his feelings in that way before. He knew when he wrote it, it would be his final show of affection.
It’s as though his words were meant to hug me in my grief.
That card may have been a small gesture of love, but it transcended time and space. It reminded me that he’s still there for me, anytime I need him.
And, although it was late for Valentine’s Day, it arrived at just the right time.
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