As I do every year, I recently sent out a big batch of Valentine’s cards to our family and friends. (I do this instead of sending holiday cards in December, when everything is so hectic.)

As I was starting to stuff and seal them, a question arose: my husband wasn’t inclined to help, but should I insist? Should I tell him that it wasn’t fair that I’d done the hard part of ordering the cards, and arranging for the photo, and gathering the addresses, and now I wanted his help with the final stage? On the other hand, I’d decided to do these cards to suit myself. Was it fair to ask him to help? Well, fairness didn’t really matter. I’d rather finish the envelopes myself than feel like a nag.

I did feel a few twinges of resentment when I glanced over at him lounging back on the sofa, but I realized that I enjoyed not feeling like a nag more than I enjoyed watching TV without licking envelopes at the same time.

When the movie was over, he looked over at me, where I sat surrounded by stuffed, sealed, and stamped red envelopes. He put his hand on mine. “Will you be my Valentine?”

I was glad that I’d decided not to push it.

The days are long, but the years are short.