My father bringing my mother the first wildflowers of spring—not because a calendar told him to, but because he saw them and thought of her. My mother mending his work clothes with extra care, packing his lunch with the bread he preferred. Small acts, constant acts, that said "I love you" more clearly than any grand gesture once a year.

Here in the city, Valentine's Day feels like a test. A performance. I see women measuring their worth by the size of bouquets, the expense of dinners, the creativity of surprises. As if love can be quantified and compared. As if one day of romance erases 364 days of indifference. 💐

My faith teaches me that love is patient, love is kind. Not that love is a dozen roses and a reservation at an overpriced restaurant. Don't misunderstand—I appreciate romance, thoughtfulness, celebration. But when did we decide that love proves itself on command, on one specific day, or it doesn't count?

I'd rather have a man who remembers how I take my tea, who prays for me without announcing it, who shows up when I need him in March and July and November. That's the love my parents had. That's the love my grandmother still speaks of, decades after my grandfather passed. 🕊️