For 63 Years, My Husband Gave Me Flowers Every Valentine’s Day – After He Died, Another Bouquet Arrived, Along with Keys to an Apartment That Held His Secret

For 63 years, my husband never missed Valentine’s Day. After he died, I expected silence.

Instead, roses appeared at my door — with a key.

I’m Daisy, 83, widowed four months. Robert proposed on Valentine’s Day in 1962 with burned garlic bread, newspaper-wrapped flowers, and a cheap silver ring. Every year after, he brought me more. In good times and terrible ones, the message was always the same: I’m still here.

So when the knock came that morning, my heart nearly stopped.

Inside the envelope was his handwriting. If I was reading it, he said, he was gone. The key belonged to an apartment across town. There was something he’d hidden, and I needed to see it.

I feared the worst.

But when I opened the door, I found a piano. Shelves of music. Recordings labeled For Daisy.

Medical papers nearby showed he’d known he was dying. A journal told the rest: decades earlier, I had mentioned giving up my dream of being a pianist. Robert secretly took lessons so he could give it back to me.

His last composition sat unfinished on the stand.

I played what he wrote — then I finished it for him.

At the end, I found one more note: Play again, my love. I’m still here.

For 63 years he brought me flowers.

Then he gave me back my dream.