Under Grumpa's Hat

Valentine’s Day did not begin with price jacked-up menus and panic buying at the jewellery counter. Its roots stretch back to ancient Rome and a festival called Lupercalia, which was less about chocolate truffles and more about fertility rituals that would make modern HR departments faint. Later, the day was linked to Saint Valentine, a priest said to have secretly married couples in defiance of an emperor who preferred his soldiers unattached. Romantic rebellion has always had good marketing.

Over centuries, poetry and handwritten notes turned into printed cards. Then companies like Hallmark stepped in and did what companies do best. They packaged affection, priced it, and placed it neatly between the chocolate aisle and the roses. Today, restaurants are booked solid, florists work overtime, and somewhere a man is frantically Googling whether red lingerie says love or lawsuit.

It is easy to roll our eyes at the commercialization. Like Christmas, Valentine’s Day can feel less like a celebration of love and more like a receipt with a heart on it. For those with a partner, the script is familiar. Jewellery, flowers, dinner reservations, a card with just the right balance of tender and not too sappy. We spend money to prove what we hope was already known.

But here is where the room gets quiet.

What about the woman who lost her husband last autumn and still reaches for his side of the bed? February 14 does not bring her roses. It brings memories. It brings silence where there used to be laughter. The world outside glows red and pink while her home feels grey.

What about the man who signed divorce papers six months ago? Last year he was picking out a card. This year he is pretending the day does not exist. He scrolls past smiling couples online and tells himself he is fine. Maybe he is. Maybe he is not. Valentine’s Day can feel like a spotlight on absence.

And what of the hospital rooms? The spouse sitting in a plastic chair beside a bed, listening to machines breathe for someone they love. The parent holding the hand of a child fighting something no child should fight. February 14 does not pause for them. There are no candlelit dinners in oncology wards. There is no two for one dessert special in intensive care. There is only hope, fear, and the kind of love that does not need wrapping paper.

What about the parents of the victims of the Tumbler Ridge, BC, school shooting grieving the lost of their 12 year-old child…

We rarely talk about them when we talk about Valentine’s Day.

We also forget the quietly alone. Not newly single. Not grieving. Just alone. The senior whose friends have passed on. The neighbour who never married. The co worker who laughs at jokes all year but goes home to an empty apartment. For some, the day is not painful. It is simply another reminder that the world seems built for pairs.

Here is the uncomfortable question. Why do we need one assigned date to express love? Why does affection require a calendar alert and a credit card?

Imagine if Valentine’s Day was not an event but a habit. If we said thank you on random Tuesdays. If we held hands on ordinary Wednesdays. If we apologized quickly and forgave often. If we noticed the tired eyes of our partner and said, I see you. If we called our parents just because. If we showed up for friends without waiting for a holiday excuse.

Would divorce rates drop? I do not know. Would families stay together longer? Perhaps. At the very least, fewer people would feel invisible on February 14.

Love is not measured in carats, candlelight, or the price of a dozen roses. It is measured in presence, not presents. In patience, no patients. In staying when it would be easier to leave. In reaching out to the widow down the street. In visiting the hospital room. In inviting the single friend over for supper so they are not alone with the television and a microwaved meal.

Valentine’s Day for everyone means expanding the circle. It means remembering that love is not a couple’s club. It is a human need.

So by all means, buy the flowers if you wish. Make the reservation. Give the card. But also send a message to someone grieving. Call someone alone. Sit beside someone who is scared. And if you are the one alone, do not mistake that for being unloved. Your worth was never tied to a date on the calendar.

Perhaps the real romance is this. Not one day of grand gestures, but a lifetime of small, consistent ones.