My V-Day Story: A Day I Will NEVER Forget

My V-Day Story: The Day I Will NEVER Forget 

 By: Alex Fernandez

The Despicable Shape 

Every single time I go to the store and see the decorations; my anxiety starts acting up. Valentine’s Day is a painful reminder of the person who is no longer standing next to me, showering me with extra love or handing me the traditional heart-shaped box of chocolates. By the way, I never knew I could despise a shape so much. I do. The heart shape became my nemesis that first February 14th without him.

The pointy bottom of the heart felt like a dagger. The whole shape itself seemed to mock me every time I saw it, as if it were saying, “Look at what others get to have, but you and your boys don’t.” I tried to avoid stores—any stores—just to escape their mocking displays. 

At one point, I considered writing an angry letter to the heart shape itself, demanding it pick a side: round or pointy—make up your damn mind! But nope, I still see it every single year, around the same time, like an unspoken date. 

Letting My Boys Have Their Own Experience

Despite my personal pain, I wanted my boys to have their own experiences. They didn’t need the same dark cloud following them. I wanted them to look forward to loving someone and showing and receiving affection. 

Four years ago, that day came for my oldest. He found her! The girl who made him smile again. I remember the day he came to me—probably a little nervously—and asked if it was okay for him to celebrate Valentine’s Day. He wanted to spend time with her. (For privacy, I won’t name her, but if she reads this, she knows she’s my Bestie and his ride-or-die.) 

I think he was afraid I’d be hurt, but I wasn’t. I was so happy for him. For them. My son found love. He found a reason to smile, to celebrate, to embrace the day that could have made him cynical and cold. He isn’t. He’s sarcastic as fuck, just like his dad, but his heart is warm, caring, and full of love. 

I owe that to her. She knows what this day means to us, and yet she loves him through it. She understands that no matter how much he loves her, this day will never be easy. And that, to me, is an amazing gift. 

As for me? I’d rather bury my head in the sand like an ostrich than go anywhere near a celebration. Or better yet, can we create a Widows’ Survival Kit for this day? A blanket, wine, a personal-sized cake, and noise-canceling headphones for all the obnoxious lovey-dovey commercials? Someone make this happen. 

My heart isn’t cold. I’m not skeptical (well I used to be). I do have someone I celebrate love with, but every single year leading up to this day (I love that he understands why I choose to not partake in celebrating this day)—THE day—that knock on the door replays in my head.

Let me take you back nine years. 

The Moment My World Collapsed: The Knock on the Door 

It was around 5 a.m. on Sunday, February 14th. A knock on my door woke me up. Sleepily, I looked out my little one’s window because it faced the front of the house. I saw a car that didn’t belong to my husband. A cop car. 

My first thought? He lost his keys and asked for a ride home. 

I quickly looked for something to wear—I was in my winter moose hoodie butt-flap pajamas (yes, take that image in). But I figured, screw it, and went to open the door, expecting to let my husband in. He had texted me earlier that he was grabbing a celebratory drink with his team, they closed on a case they’ve been working very hard on. He’d be home soon. 

When I opened the door, the President of the PBA stood there, along with two of his friends (maybe more I honestly don’t remember)—and one of mine, a fellow police wife. The person I didn’t see was my husband. 

Then came the words that would change everything: 

“Alex, Frank has been in an accident.” 

I immediately thought back to how we used to gauge severity: minor accidents meant one hospital, and serious injuries meant another. So, I asked, "Okay, what hospital is he in?" As I turned around to go change my silly outfit, his voice stopped me before I could turn around all the way. I don’t remember if they were inside or still standing on the other side of the door, but I do remember the numbness that took over when he said with a quivering voice the words that would forever change my family life, 
 
“Alex, he didn’t make it. He’s not coming home.” 

I remember being ushered to the living room, crying, feeling my friend holding me so tightly that my glasses were digging into my face. My mind struggled to process what I was hearing. 

“What happened?” 

A fire truck was responding to a false alarm. My husband was on his way home, driving in the opposite direction. The fire truck saw his SUV too late. They tried to swerve, but the street was too narrow. 

A head-on collision. 

He died instantly. 

My brain screamed, What the fuck?! Frankie, you didn’t see that big-ass truck?! Why didn’t you move?!* 

I didn’t get to say goodbye. 

I didn’t get to say, I love you. 

I didn’t get to say don’t leave us, we’ll get through this, I’m here, the boys are here. 

I got to say nothing.  

He got to say nothing. 

Shit, did he know what was happening?  

Seeing Him One Last Time 

I needed to see him. These were people who had worked alongside him for fifteen years, who knew his blue SUV as well as their own patrol cars. But what if they were wrong? Mistakes happen every day. What if this was one of them? I could tell by their hesitation that they didn’t want me to go, but I refused to accept their silent protest. I needed to see him with my own eyes. 

I threw on whatever clothes I could find—jeans, a T-shirt, and the pink hoodie Frankie and the boys had given me. It had their tiny handprints on it, something mom-related—I can’t even remember the words on it now. I just know that I wore it for days, maybe even a week, because my mind couldn't process anything beyond survival. Somehow, wearing it brought me comfort. 

I insisted on going. Two of his friends drove me to the hospital while the others stayed behind with my sleeping boys. The car ride felt endless. The only sound was the radio chatter from the police scanner. When we arrived, my nerves were so on edge that my body betrayed me—an audible toot escaped. No one said a word. Bless them. 

Walking through those double doors, and seeing the solemn faces of officers lining the hallway, I knew. I was led to a small room. A body lay on a gurney, surrounded by officers and a priest. They had cleaned him up so I could see him in a “better light,” but all I saw was the impact of the accident—painfully visible.

I laid my head on his chest, tears streaming down my face. I should have kissed him. I didn’t. And every year, that regret haunts me. 

My last kiss with him had been in our driveway. I remember teasing him about missing our movie night and wearing matching footie pajamas with the boys. He laughed, kissed me, and told me he wished he could stay home. If only I had asked him to. If only he had.

I randomly joke with friends that that was a lousy way of getting out of our kitchen renovations. I’ve made a new friend recently who now jokingly reminds me that this was his way of making sure I don’t forget him. Honestly, he would do some shit like that—if he had a choice.

 A Mother’s Heartbreak

After leaving the hospital, I was asked who should tell his parents. I knew it had to be me. I wasn’t about to let strangers deliver this devastating news. 

The drive to their house felt endless, even though they lived just minutes away. When his mother opened the door and saw me standing there with two of his friends, her face immediately filled with concern. 

"Que pasa, mija?" she asked, her usual greeting, but this time laced with worry. 

I asked her to wake up dad. She knew something was wrong, but nothing could have prepared her for how bad it truly was. 

Choking back my tears, I spoke the words that shattered them. "I’m so sorry. Frank was in an accident." I paused, forcing myself to breathe before I could say the next sentence. 
"He didn’t make it." 

A mother’s cry for her lost child is something that stays with you forever. The sound of heartbreak, raw and unfiltered, is something you can never unhear. His father stood frozen, eyes wide, holding his weeping wife. He wanted me to take it back, to tell him this was some terrible joke—Frank was always the jokester, after all. But this wasn’t a joke, and I couldn’t take back what I had said. I had to tell them I had seen him with my own eyes. 

The Day I Took Away Their Innocence 

“Mama, where’s Daddy?” 

My throat tightened. This was it. 

I sat next to them on the bed, taking each of their tiny hands in mine. "Daddy was in an accident," I said, forcing the words out before my own sobs could betray me. "And… he's not coming home." 

The look on their faces—the confusion giving way to realization, the sheer agony that followed—will haunt me forever. Their cries tore through me. There was no fixing this. No band-aid big enough, no magic words or elixir to make it all okay, no Sana Sana song to make if feel better. I could do nothing but hold them as they shattered in my arms, wailing for their dad, for a reality that would never be the same. 

At that moment, I wished I could pull a Frank and crack some ridiculous joke, something sarcastic, something inappropriate even, just to break the weight of it all. But there was no joke that could make this better. No witty remark to soften the blow. 

All I could do was hold them, let them cry, and cry with them. Because at that moment, that was all we had. 

Love and Grace 

As the wife of the man, I was meant to grow old with—the one I dreamed of sharing grandkids, adventures, and quiet empty-nest moments with—I can’t sit across from someone and declare love without my heart pulling me back (thankfully this new love  supports and understand that this is not our day, and my heart is split in two.) Back to that day. Back to him. The man I still love. The man I will always love. 

There’s a part of my heart that will never heal, a space permanently reserved for him. And on this day, it beats differently aching and rejoicing all at once. 

I will never be the her he met, nor the her he helped step out of her shell. She’s gone. But I believe I’ve become the version he would have been proud of—the version he was still helping to shape.

Valentine’s Day isn’t for me. It never will be. But I’m not anti-Valentine’s Day either. I’m choosing to make it a day of self-love and remembrance instead. Every year, I give my boys the choice to attend school or not. I never wanted to impose how I felt on them. Each year, they made their own decisions, and it wasn’t always the same. I respected that and allowed them the freedom to change their minds. Because grief? She’s an intrusive sucker who barges in whenever she pleases. 

I know I’m not the only one who doesn’t celebrate this day. Not everyone has that special someone to have and to hold. For some, it’s just another day. For others, like me, it’s a painful reminder of someone who is no longer here. It’s different for everyone. 

So, to my fellow warriors—do what feels right to you. If that means buying yourself flowers, a box of your favorite candy, or going out for drinks with kindred spirits, holding something that reminds you of them then do it. If you’ve never experienced the kind of loss that makes you shun this day, please be mindful of those who choose not to partake. 

I am only days away from my ninth year without my flame—and our boys without their hero. No, it doesn’t get easier. So please, please don’t assume that just because we laugh, love, and put one foot in front of the other, somehow we’re over the worst day of our lives. We’ve just learned to live with it. Grief is like a tattoo—no laser can remove it, and no bigger design can cover it up. 

In those first few days, my home was a revolving door, the locks never clicking shut. Some friends became family. Acquaintances became friends, then family. And some…well, some just dropped the ball. 

I am forever grateful for those who showed us grace—for those who had their own chaos to deal with and yet stepped up in ways I could never have imagined. Without them, and without the knowledge that I had two gifts who depended on me, I have no damn clue how I would even be writing this today. 

So now you know my V-Day story—the day I will never forget. Thank you for letting me share, and I hope this helps you understand why I do what I do. 

And if you have someone you love—your kids, your partner, your best friend—tell them. Don’t assume they know. Say it. Say it just because it’s Tuesday. Because words left unspoken? That’s one of my biggest regrets.