The Last Valentine
The February afternoon sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow across the worn linoleum floor as Cora Mitchell carefully folded the last load of laundry. She glanced at the clock on the microwave—2:30 PM—and felt a familiar flutter of excitement in her chest. Eric would be home in just over three hours, and she still had so much to prepare for their Valentine’s Day surprise.
At twenty-eight, Cora possessed the kind of quiet beauty that came from contentment rather than artifice. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she wore one of Eric’s old college t-shirts over a pair of faded jeans. The past four years of marriage and motherhood had softened her figure slightly, but her green eyes still sparkled with the same warmth and optimism that had first attracted Eric at a business conference in Austin five years earlier.
That conference seemed like a lifetime ago now. They had been two ambitious young professionals then—Eric working his way up in financial consulting, Cora establishing herself in marketing—both orphans who had aged out of the foster care system and were determined to build something better for themselves. They had connected instantly over their shared experiences of growing up without the safety net of family, their dreams of creating the warm, loving home neither had experienced as children.
Those dreams had materialized faster than either had expected. After a whirlwind courtship that lasted barely six months, they had married in a simple ceremony attended by a handful of friends and colleagues. Two years later, their world turned upside down in the most wonderful and terrifying way possible when Cora’s pregnancy revealed not one, but three babies on the way.
Nathan, Sofia, and Emma had arrived on a snowy March morning, three perfect, healthy babies who transformed their modest two-bedroom apartment into a chaos of joy, sleepless nights, and endless laundry. Cora had taken extended leave from her marketing job, intending to return when the babies were older, but the logistics of childcare for triplets had proven more complex and expensive than they had anticipated.
As the months turned into years, what was supposed to be temporary had become permanent. Eric’s salary, while decent for a young couple, was stretched thin supporting a family of five. Every month brought the familiar dance of juggling bills, prioritizing necessities, and hoping nothing unexpected would arise to upset their carefully balanced budget.
Cora tried not to dwell on the sacrifices they had both made. She missed the intellectual stimulation of her career, the satisfaction of completing projects and seeing her ideas come to life, the simple pleasure of adult conversation during lunch breaks. But watching her children discover the world—Nathan’s fascination with anything that had wheels, Sofia’s infectious giggle when tickled, Emma’s serious concentration as she stacked blocks—filled her with a different kind of fulfillment.
Still, she worried about Eric. The man she had married had been ambitious but relaxed, quick to laugh and slow to anger. The Eric who came home each evening now carried the weight of their family’s financial security on his shoulders, and it showed in the tension around his eyes, the way he sometimes sat at their small kitchen table long after dinner, staring at bills and bank statements with the focused intensity of a general planning a difficult campaign.
They hadn’t been on a real date in over two years. Their last vacation—if a long weekend at her former foster mother’s cabin could be called a vacation—had been before the babies were born. Eric insisted they couldn’t afford extras, and Cora understood. She had learned to find romance in the small moments: the way he still brought her coffee in bed on Sunday mornings, how he never failed to kiss her goodnight even when they both fell into bed exhausted.
But today was Valentine’s Day, and Cora had been planning something special for weeks.
She moved through the apartment with practiced efficiency, settling the triplets in their playpen with toys and snacks that would keep them occupied while she worked. At three years old, they were increasingly mobile and curious, which made any project that required sustained attention a logistical challenge. But today they seemed content to play quietly, perhaps sensing their mother’s excited energy.
In the kitchen, Cora pulled out the ingredients she had carefully budgeted for and hidden in the back of their small pantry. She had been setting aside a few dollars here and there from their grocery money for the past month, choosing generic brands and skipping small luxuries like the flavored coffee creamer Eric enjoyed. The sacrifice was worth it for the look of surprise she hoped to see on his face.
The red velvet cake had been Eric’s favorite since their first Valentine’s Day together as a couple. She still remembered how his eyes had lit up when she had surprised him with a homemade version after discovering that the bakery near his office charged thirty dollars for what she could make for less than ten. This year’s version was shaped like a heart, carefully crafted during the babies’ afternoon nap the day before and hidden in their neighbor’s refrigerator to keep it a surprise.
As she worked, Cora allowed herself to imagine Eric’s reaction. He had been so stressed lately, working longer hours as his company downsized and his responsibilities expanded without a corresponding increase in pay. She knew he felt guilty about their financial constraints, about the way their dreams of travel and nice dinners out had been replaced by the reality of diaper costs and pediatrician visits.
This dinner was her way of showing him that romance didn’t require expensive restaurants or exotic destinations. Some of her happiest memories from their courtship had been the simple evenings they spent cooking together in his tiny studio apartment, talking about their dreams while pasta boiled on the stove.
The aglio e olio had been Eric’s specialty in those early days—a simple dish of pasta with garlic, olive oil, and red pepper flakes that he had learned from his college roommate’s Italian grandmother. Cora had practiced the recipe several times over the past weeks, wanting to recreate not just the flavors but the memories associated with it.
By five o’clock, the apartment was transformed. The dining table, usually covered with coloring books and toy cars, was set for two with their wedding china—a gift from Eric’s former boss that they saved for special occasions. Candles that Cora had found on clearance after Christmas flickered softly, and she had scattered rose petals from the front door to the table, using flowers from the discount rack at the grocery store that she had dried herself.
The piece de résistance sat beside Eric’s place setting: a small wrapped box containing plane tickets to Hawaii and a letter that represented weeks of secret phone calls, careful planning, and hope for their future.
Cora had been applying for jobs for the past two months, targeting positions that would allow her to work while the children were in daycare. The process had been humbling—explaining a three-year gap in her resume, researching childcare options they could actually afford, wondering if her skills had become obsolete in her absence from the workforce.
But yesterday afternoon, her phone had rung with the news she had been hoping for: a marketing coordinator position at a local nonprofit that offered flexible hours and benefits that would more than offset the cost of childcare. The salary wasn’t enormous, but it would give them breathing room, allow them to start saving again, maybe even take the vacation they had been postponing since before the babies were born.
The Hawaii tickets had been an impulse purchase, booked with the small emergency fund she had been carefully building from her occasional freelance writing projects. Mrs. Nelson, their seventy-year-old neighbor who had become like a grandmother to the triplets, had already agreed to watch the children for a long weekend. It would be their first time away from the babies since they were born, their first real vacation as a married couple in years.
At six-fifteen, Cora heard Eric’s key in the lock. She smoothed her red dress—the same one he had given her for their first anniversary, now slightly snug but still beautiful—and walked to the door with a smile that felt like sunshine.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey!” she said, rising on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek as he stepped inside.
But Eric’s reaction wasn’t what she had imagined during all those weeks of planning. Instead of surprise or delight, his face registered something that looked almost like anger as he took in the candlelit room, the rose petals, the carefully set table.
“What is this, Cora?” he asked, his voice tight with a frustration she didn’t understand. “Are we teenagers now?”
The words hit her like cold water, extinguishing the warm glow she had been carrying all day. She watched in confusion as Eric moved through the room, switching on the overhead lights and destroying the romantic ambiance she had spent hours creating.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked, genuine concern replacing her earlier excitement. “Did something happen at work? You seem upset.”
“Upset?” Eric’s voice rose to a level that made Cora instinctively glance toward the children’s room. “Do you have any idea what I’m dealing with right now? Do you know what it’s like to work sixty-hour weeks just to keep us afloat, only to come home and find you’ve blown money we don’t have on… on this?”
He gestured dismissively at the table, and Cora felt tears sting her eyes. This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. She had been so careful with their budget, so thoughtful about every expense.
“Eric, please calm down,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I didn’t spend much, I promise. I used grocery money I saved over the past few weeks, and I made everything myself. Please, just sit down and let me explain—”
But Eric was beyond listening. The stress of months of financial pressure, of watching other couples their age buy houses and take vacations while he struggled to pay rent and utilities, of feeling like he was failing as a provider, erupted in a torrent of words he would later desperately wish he could take back.
“This is why we’re broke, Cora! This is exactly why we can’t get ahead! You sit at home all day playing with the kids while I’m busting my ass at work, and then you waste money on romantic nonsense like we’re some couple without responsibilities!”
The unfairness of the accusation took Cora’s breath away. She thought of the countless nights she had spent walking the floor with colicky babies while Eric slept, preparing for important meetings. The days when she barely had time to shower between feedings, diaper changes, and the constant demands of three active toddlers. The way she clipped coupons and shopped sales and found creative ways to make their limited budget stretch just a little further each month.
“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “You know I work just as hard as you do. Taking care of three children isn’t playing, Eric. It’s—”
“It’s what, exactly?” Eric interrupted, his frustration overriding any sense of fairness or kindness. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m the only one in this marriage who’s worried about our future.”
He picked up a forkful of the pasta she had made with such care and spat it back onto the plate with deliberate cruelty. “And apparently you can’t even cook anymore. This tastes terrible.”
The insult was calculated to wound, and it found its mark. Cora had spent years perfecting her cooking skills, taking pride in creating nutritious, delicious meals from their limited grocery budget. The pasta was perfectly prepared—she had tasted it herself before plating it—but Eric’s cruelty made her doubt even that small accomplishment.
“Eric, stop,” she pleaded, aware that his raised voice was likely disturbing the children. “You’re being horrible, and you’re going to wake the babies.”
“Right, because that’s my fault too,” Eric said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He picked up the wrapped gift box from beside his plate and held it up like evidence in a trial. “Let me guess—you bought me some expensive present we can’t afford? Something else to add to our credit card debt?”
Before Cora could explain, before she could tell him about the job or the careful planning or the hope she had wrapped along with those plane tickets, Eric threw the box to the floor with enough force that she heard something inside it crack.
“I’m not a child, Cora. I don’t need toys and games to make me happy. What I need is a partner who understands that we have real problems that can’t be solved with candlelight and rose petals.”
The words hung in the air between them, cruel and final. Cora stared at the man she had married, the father of her children, and wondered where the Eric she had fallen in love with had gone. This angry stranger wearing her husband’s face seemed capable of destroying everything good between them with his bitterness and blame.
From the children’s room came the sound of crying—one baby, then another, then all three responding to the tension and raised voices that had invaded their peaceful evening. The sound seemed to infuriate Eric even more.
“Great,” he said. “Now look what you’ve done. Can’t you keep them quiet for one evening?”
Something inside Cora snapped. She had absorbed his criticism of her cooking, his dismissal of her efforts, his cruel assessment of her worth as a partner. But his attack on her abilities as a mother—when she had devoted every waking moment of the past three years to caring for their children—was more than she could bear.
“They’re crying because they need fresh diapers,” she said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. “And we’re out because you’ve been so worried about money that I’ve been rationing everything, including basic supplies for our children.”
She grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door, her movements sharp with anger and hurt. “Since you think taking care of them is so easy, you can handle bedtime while I go to the store. It’s a twenty-minute drive each way, plus shopping time, so don’t expect me back soon.”
“Fine!” Eric shouted as she headed for the door. “Maybe when you get back, you’ll remember that being a mother means more than playing house and wasting money on stupid romantic dinners!”
The door slammed behind Cora with enough force to rattle the windows, leaving Eric alone with three crying babies and the ruins of the evening his wife had planned with such love and hope.
For several minutes, Eric stood in the sudden silence, his anger slowly giving way to the first stirrings of regret. The apartment looked different now—not romantic, but sad. The candles were still burning, the rose petals scattered across the floor like evidence of something beautiful that had been deliberately destroyed.
He went to tend to the children, changing diapers and offering bottles with the mechanical efficiency of someone going through familiar motions while his mind wrestled with larger concerns. Nathan, Sofia, and Emma settled back into sleep relatively quickly, their trust in him unshaken despite the harsh words that had driven their mother from the house.
An hour passed. Then another. Eric found himself checking the clock every few minutes, his irritation at Cora’s extended absence gradually morphing into something closer to worry. How long could it possibly take to buy a pack of diapers?
He tried calling her cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. The cheerful message—”Hi, you’ve reached Cora! Leave me a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can!”—sounded impossibly young and optimistic, a reminder of the woman who had kissed his cheek just a few hours earlier.
At nine-thirty, the doorbell rang.
Eric hurried to answer it, expecting to see Cora weighed down with shopping bags and full of apologies for taking so long. Instead, he found a police officer standing on his doorstep, hat in hand and expression grave.
“Are you Eric Mitchell?” the officer asked.
“Yes,” Eric replied, though the word came out as barely more than a whisper.
“Is your wife Cora Mitchell? Auburn hair, green eyes, about five-foot-six?”
Eric nodded, unable to speak past the growing dread that was closing his throat.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but your wife was involved in a serious automobile accident about an hour ago. A drunk driver ran a red light and struck her vehicle. She was transported to Memorial Hospital, but…” The officer paused, his professional composure wavering slightly. “She didn’t survive her injuries. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The words seemed to come from very far away, filtered through a roaring sound that Eric realized was his own blood rushing in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. People didn’t die going to buy diapers. Wives didn’t leave for the grocery store and never come home.
“There must be some mistake,” he heard himself say. “She just went to the store. She’ll be back any minute.”
But even as he spoke, Eric knew there was no mistake. The officer’s expression was too grave, too practiced in delivering the worst news one human being could give to another.
The next few hours passed in a blur of phone calls, paperwork, and arrangements that seemed simultaneously urgent and utterly meaningless. Mrs. Nelson came to stay with the children, her own eyes red with tears as she hugged Eric and whispered condolences he wasn’t ready to hear.
At the hospital, Eric was asked to identify Cora’s body—a task that seemed impossibly cruel given that just hours earlier, she had been laughing, planning, hoping for their future. The woman on the gurney looked peaceful, as if she were sleeping, but the absence of her vibrant spirit was unmistakable.
The funeral was held three days later, a small service attended by the few friends and colleagues who had become their chosen family. Eric moved through it all like a sleepwalker, accepting sympathy and casseroles from well-meaning neighbors while the triplets clung to his legs, too young to understand why Mommy wasn’t coming home.
It was only after everyone had gone, after the last dish had been washed and the children had finally fallen asleep, that Eric returned to the dining room where Cora’s Valentine’s surprise still waited, untouched since that terrible evening.
The candles had long since burned out, leaving puddles of wax on their wedding china. The rose petals had wilted and turned brown at the edges. And there, on the floor where Eric had thrown it in his rage, lay the small wrapped box that contained his wife’s final gift.
With hands that shook from exhaustion and grief, Eric picked up the box and carefully unwrapped it. Inside, along with two airline tickets to Hawaii, was a letter written in Cora’s familiar handwriting:
My dearest Eric,
Happy Valentine’s Day, my love! I have the most incredible news to share with you, and I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you.
I got a job! After months of applications and interviews, I finally heard back from the Riverside Community Foundation. They offered me a position as Marketing Coordinator—it’s perfect because the hours are flexible, and the benefits are amazing. Mrs. Nelson has already agreed to watch the babies, and the salary will give us the financial breathing room we’ve been dreaming of.
But that’s not even the best part. Those tickets you’re holding? They’re for a long weekend in Hawaii, just the two of us. I know we haven’t been able to take a real vacation since before the babies were born, and I wanted to surprise you with something special to celebrate this new chapter in our lives.
I see how hard you work, how much pressure you put on yourself to provide for our family. You are the most dedicated husband and father I could have asked for, and I love you more every day for the sacrifices you make for us.
I can’t wait to start contributing financially again, to be your partner in every sense of the word. But more than that, I can’t wait to see your face when you realize that we’re finally going to be okay. Better than okay—we’re going to thrive.
All my love, always and forever, Cora
P.S. – I have a few more surprises planned for our trip, but you’ll have to wait to find out what they are! I love you so much.
Eric read the letter three times before the words fully penetrated the fog of his grief. His wife—the woman he had accused of being frivolous and irresponsible—had been secretly working to solve their financial problems. She had found a job, arranged childcare, planned a vacation they could afford, all while continuing to care for their children and manage their household.
And instead of celebrating her accomplishments, instead of thanking her for her thoughtfulness and support, he had destroyed her joy with his anger and cruelty. The last words he had spoken to her had been accusations and insults. The last memory she had carried with her to that intersection where a drunk driver ended her life was of her husband’s rage, not his love.
Eric collapsed into one of their dining room chairs and wept with the abandoned grief of someone who had lost not just a spouse, but the chance to make amends for unforgivable words. The what-ifs tormented him: what if he had listened instead of lashing out? What if he had trusted her instead of assuming the worst? What if he had simply said “thank you” and meant it?
But there were no second chances, no opportunities to rewrite that final conversation. Cora was gone, and Eric was left to raise their children alone, carrying the weight of his regret alongside his grief.
The years that followed were marked by Eric’s determined effort to be the father Cora would have wanted him to be. He learned to braid Sofia’s hair and help Nathan with his homework and read bedtime stories with Emma curled against his chest. He never remarried, never even dated, choosing instead to pour all his love into the three small people who were his living connection to the woman he had failed so catastrophically.
Every Valentine’s Day, Eric made the same pilgrimage to Cora’s grave, carrying fresh flowers and the weight of words he would never be able to say. He told her about the children’s achievements and fears, about the job promotion that had finally given them the financial security she had worked so hard to provide. He apologized, over and over, for the anger that had stolen their last evening together.
And always, he ended these one-sided conversations the same way: “I’m sorry, Cora. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I’m sorry I wasted our last Valentine’s Day being cruel instead of grateful. I love you, and I should have told you that instead of everything else I said.”
The red dress hung in their bedroom closet for years, untouched and unworn, a reminder of the woman who had loved him enough to plan a perfect evening and forgive him for destroying it. The plane tickets to Hawaii eventually expired, unused, but Eric kept them in his wallet—a talisman of dreams deferred and love unappreciated until it was too late.
In the end, Eric learned the hardest lesson of all: that words, once spoken in anger, can never be taken back. That assumptions, left unchallenged, can poison the very relationships we hold most dear. And that sometimes, the people who love us most are also working the hardest to make our lives better, even when we’re too blind to see it.
The last Valentine Cora ever planned had been perfect in every way that mattered. It was Eric’s failure to recognize that perfection—his inability to see past his own frustration to the love that motivated every detail—that made it truly tragic.
Some mistakes can be forgiven. Some can be forgotten. But some leave wounds that never fully heal, serving instead as permanent reminders of the precious fragility of love and the irreplaceable value of the words we choose to speak to those who matter most.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.
Driven by a commitment to preserving stories that matter, Lila is passionate about exploring the intersection of history and technology. Her goal is to ensure that every piece of content she handles reflects the richness of human experiences and remains a source of inspiration for years to come.