By Rosemarie D. Embile
For Variety
EVERY Valentine’s Day for more than 15 years, my husband has given me three red flowers.
Not a dozen. Not an extravagant bouquet. Just three red flowers — every single year. Along with them, he makes a reservation. Sometimes it’s somewhere elegant. Sometimes it’s a place we’ve loved for years. We still dress up. We still step away from the noise of life. We still make the day matter.
To someone else, it might seem simple. To me, it means everything. Those three flowers represent consistency.
They show up no matter what kind of year we’ve had — through career pressures, family responsibilities, tight schedules, and the normal wear and tear of life. There were years we were tired. Years we were stretched. Years when romance didn’t feel effortless. But the flowers still came. The reservation was still made. He still showed up.
When we first married, love felt exciting and easy. I thought that feeling would last forever. What I’ve learned is that love doesn’t disappear when it matures — it deepens. It becomes less about butterflies and more about choice.
Marriage isn’t picture-perfect. We’ve disagreed. We’ve had seasons where patience had to be intentional. We’ve both had to learn how to apologize, how to listen better, how to grow without growing apart. The real side of marriage is humbling — but it’s also strengthening.
Over time, love has looked less like grand gestures and more like steady presence. It shows up in small conversations, shared responsibilities, forgiveness, and trying again. It shows up in staying.
The three red flowers and our annual dinner don’t erase the hard parts. They remind me that we’ve kept choosing each other anyway. That consistency — more than extravagance — is what has carried us.
After more than 15 years, romance feels quieter, but stronger. It rests in knowing that someone continues to choose you, year after year.
This Valentine’s Day, I’m grateful not just for the flowers or the reservation, but for the man who never forgot either.
Because sometimes, real love looks like three red flowers — every single year.
