Valentine’s Day: The Flicker of Hope

Ah, my first Valentine's Day. The first one I ever spent with someone. No awkward high school boyfriend, no shy crush, no lonely box of chocolates. Just me and my husband. My first Valentine's Day as a wife.

I didn't expect much. Not roses or jewelry or some grand romantic gesture. I just thought… maybe he'd surprise me. Maybe I'd wake up to a kiss, a whispered "Happy Valentine's Day," maybe my favorite breakfast. I didn't want a fairy tale. I just wanted to be seen. I wanted to feel like I mattered.

But when I woke up, there was nothing. No "Happy Valentine's Day," no sweet smile. Just another morning. When I asked, he shrugged. "We're not doing anything. It's just a stupid holiday."

So, I told myself it was fine. I wasn't disappointed. I was mature. I didn't need some silly holiday to feel loved. And when my mom and sister invited me to go shopping, I said yes. Maternity pants, a simple, practical trip. Because I was practical now. A wife. Pregnant. Grown-up.

But then, just as we were wrapping up, he called. His voice sharp, cold, like a knife against my ear. "Be home by 5 PM." No explanation. No warmth. Just an order.

And I told myself maybe this was it. Maybe he had something planned. Maybe he'd surprise me after all. My heart fluttered with hope.

But the drive home was slow, construction traffic. And my excitement turned to anxiety, each passing minute twisting in my chest. I kept watching the clock, biting my lip, whispering, "Come on, come on…"

We pulled into the driveway at 5:15.

I barely made it through the door before he exploded.

"I told you to be here by 5!" His voice was a storm, his face twisted with rage. "You're always late! You never listen! You ruined everything!"

Ruined what? I wanted to ask, but the words tangled in my throat. I tried to explain, construction, traffic, but he didn't care. He didn't hear me. He didn't see me. His words were a battering ram, and I was already crumbling.

"I didn't… I couldn't… I'm sorry—"

"Get in the car!" he snapped, already turning away, grabbing his keys. "We're going."

I didn't even get to change. Didn't get to breathe. I just followed, my heart pounding, my hands trembling. He was angry, and I didn't know how to fix it. I didn't know how to make him happy. I never did.

I climbed into the passenger seat, barely buckled before he slammed the gas, the car lurching forward. My heart raced, my stomach twisting. I watched the world blur past the window, trying to tell myself it would be okay. I just needed to be sweet. To be quiet. To be good. To make him happy.

But all I felt was dread, settling cold and heavy in my chest.

And it was just getting started.

"We would've gone to the nice restaurant, but you ruined that," he spat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. His voice was cold, his jaw tight. "No point in even trying now."

Ruined it. He kept saying that— ruined. Like I'd shattered something precious. Like I was the problem. Like my existence was the mistake.

I stared out the window, the world blurring by, and tried to blink back the tears. I hadn't eaten since that morning. My stomach twisted in tight, aching knots, and the nausea of pregnancy made it worse. But I didn't dare say I was hungry. I didn't dare say anything.

I just stayed quiet. Silent. Invisible.

Finally, he pulled into a gas station, the car jerking to a stop. "Go get something if you're hungry," he muttered, not even looking at me.

A lifeline. Hope. I slipped out of the car, wiping at my eyes, trying to calm the shaking in my hands. Maybe this could still be okay. Maybe we could salvage this. Maybe I could make him happy again.

Inside, the warm lights of the gas station felt almost comforting. I wandered the aisles, a quiet, desperate joy blooming in my chest. Something to eat. Something to fix this. Something to feel normal.

And then I saw them, chili cheese dogs. Hot, cheesy, perfectly trashy. Not exactly a romantic meal, but I didn't care. I was starving, and they smelled like heaven.

I bought two. A small moment of rebellion. Something warm, something that might make me smile, even just a little.

But the moment I got back to the car, I saw his glare in the rearview mirror. My fingers tightened around the warm, foil-wrapped bliss. But I tried to stay calm. I slid into the passenger seat, a tiny flicker of happiness clinging to me.

"Look, I got us something," I whispered, offering him one, trying to make it feel like a peace offering.

But he didn't even look at me. His hand shot out, snatching the chili cheese dogs from my grasp. I barely had time to gasp before he yanked open his window and hurled them out.

Gone. Just like that.

My shock was instant, a hot, stinging ache in my chest. "My… my hot dog…" The words came out in a broken whisper, a tiny, childlike plea.

"That's not a snack!" he barked, his voice a whip crack. "You're such a fat bitch! You don't need to eat anything. Not after what you did."

Fat bitch. The words slapped me across the face. I felt my cheeks burn, my stomach twist, the hunger fading beneath a wave of shame. I tried to speak, tried to say something— anything —but my voice caught, strangled by tears.

"Buckle up," he muttered, shoving the car into gear. "We're going to the movie."

And I buckled my seatbelt, feeling the emptiness in my stomach hollow out into a cold, aching void. My hands were shaking in my lap, my head pressed against the cold glass of the window.

Silent tears slipped down my cheeks. He didn't see. He didn't care.

And I was too scared to cry out loud.