Valentine’s Day is not my favorite holiday: too many painful memories and unrealized dreams. Though many couples are successful, for me, at 57, the intimate romantic logical vulnerable safe knitting together of two lives seems like an impossibility. The fabric feels always dangerously close to fraying. But Mom and Dad have made it work for 63 years, including their courtship. To celebrate the day, they teetered to the chocolate cottage down the street and bought each other some goodies—for Dad, a box of sugar-free chocolate cherries—for Mom, a one-pound log of rocky road! Dad also brought home two dozen yellow roses for Mom, her favorite color. Mom called me at work to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day and to invite me to go to dinner with them. “This is your romantic day,” I demurred. “You and Dad should enjoy dinner for two. I’d be a third wheel.” “Nonsense,” she rebuffed. “We’d love to have you with us. We’re a family!” In the end, I proved useful, carrying plates and drinks and silverware, helping Dad into and out of his seat. A cheerful vibrant pony-tailed server about my age waited on us. I could not help but wonder about her circumstances. Ever friendly, Mom asked her if she had children. “I have six!” the woman enthused. Her oldest is serving our Church as a missionary in Costa Rica. Several of my children served such two-year missions, in Oklahoma, Florida, California, and Mozambique (in Portuguese-speaking southeast Africa). We had that in common. I do not know if she is married, but she was waiting tables, and I was being waited upon, and I was with my parents, and we were surrounded by scores of listening people. Enjoying our meals, Dad reminisced about when his mother worked as a waitress and janitor. She worked at night cleaning the Kearns building downtown Salt Lake City during World War II. As a seven-year-old, Dad would accompany her and empty the waste baskets. The foreman arrived to give Dora her pay. Dad informed the man he had worked too, and where was his pay? Without meanness, the man picked up a pencil from a desk and handed it to Dad: “Here’s your pay, little man.” Dad had thought it “chintzy” pay for the work. Not to be chintzy in turn, he left a nice tip for the cheerful vibrant mother of six. “She has a family to support.” Walking slowly to the car, Mom thanked me for taking her and Dad to dinner. “I should be thanking you,” I answered. “Thank you for including me in your Valentine’s Day.” Back at home, I climbed the stairs to my home office. On my laptop rested a yellow chocolate rose lollipop, with a ribbon bow, a gift from my vibrant cheerful mother.