Valentines Day

When I was seventeen years old I received three anonymous Valentines Day cards from three mystery girls.

I worked out that one of them came from my friends girlfriend who wanted to make sure that I was not left out from the fun, the second I never worked out who it was from and the third one was from a young girl who I had only met once and never spoken to whom I began dating 3 months later  – she became my wife.

In the intervening years of our marriage although we have always exchanged cards and little gifts and I have sent her flowers the romance in the exercise was a little superficial.

Two years ago after confiding in my wife the truth about my sexuality and experiencing her huge capacity to include me fully in our marriage, my attitude to Valentines Day changed.

Through the trauma of having to tell her my truth and in fearing its consequences which have not come to pass in our marriage, I have wanted to respond to her with much more fullness and one of the ways I have done this is to acknowledge that she would like me to be romantic on Valentines Day.

So, for the third year in a row, I have booked a romantic meal in a very nice restaurant which includes a crooner serenading us during the evening. The stuff I loathed and rejected, which now I revel in, because in recognising my truth, my wonderful wife, has enabled me to see hers.

At the table I say to her, “Tell me again love – that card you sent to me when I was seventeen – was it because you fancied me?” “It was, wasn’t it”

Her response “Yes, love, if it makes you happy to believe that!”

My next blog will be: The Raging Storm

William Defoe

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