Page 54 of The Valentine Agenda

His father paused mid-bite, setting down his spoon. "But you're learning, aren't you?"

"I left her waiting," James said, the jjigae in front of him going cold. "Twice. At Nero's, at the Morrison's gala—"

"Then don't do it again!" His mother's chopsticks clattered against her bowl as she reached across the table to push a dish toward him. "Stop analyzing the past performance and focus on future strategy. Eat. You're too thin."

"What your mother is trying to say," his father intervened, reaching for the namul while squeezing her shoulder gently, "is that love is about showing up. Every day. In all the small ways that matter."

James looked between them—his mother aggressively filling his bowl with more food, his father's gentle understanding as he passed her favorite side dish without being asked.

"What if it's too late?"

"Wrong question," his mother said sharply, even as his father smiled over his spoonful of soup.

"The question is," his father said, "are you willing to show up every day, making her life better in small ways, even if she never loves you back?"

His mother's expression softened and her hand found his father's across the table.

James watched his parents' unconscious gesture of connection, understanding finally what Hannah had been trying to teach him all along. What his parents, in their different ways, had been showing him his whole life.

Love wasn't about grand gestures or perfect timing or impressive displays.

It was about showing up.

Every day.

Whether anyone noticed or not.

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James walked home through streets he'd known since childhood, past houses that held memories of scraped knees and borrowed bicycles. The neighborhood hadn't changed much in the years he'd known it.

A young mother struggled with a stroller up ahead, and James found himself moving to help before he consciously decided to. Hannah would have already been there, he thought. Would have known exactly how to steady the wheels without making the mother feel awkward about needing assistance.

"Thank you," the woman said, surprised.

James nodded, continuing his walk. But now he saw the neighborhood differently—through Hannah's eyes. The people she could talk to. The litter she could pick up. All the small ways she made spaces better just by moving through them.

He passed the local elementary school, dark now except for security lights. He could picture her here—patient with scraped knees, gentle with hurt feelings, treating every child's painting like a masterpiece.

"I don't deserve her," he said aloud to the empty street.

The words knocked around in his chest as he walked. Past the corner store where he'd bought candy as a kid. Past the park where he'd learned to ride a bike. Past all the pieces of his history that had shaped him into a man.

When had he become someone who cared more about appearance than substance? And why hadn't he noticed?

He hadn't noticed a lot of things he should have. He should have noticed Hannah.

He stopped at a crosswalk, remembering how she'd stood in that corporate gala, lovely and out of place and so painfully genuine. He'd wanted to show her off, to prove something to the world.

But Hannah didn't need to be shown off.

She needed to be shown up for.

Every day.

The resolution formed slowly as he walked, solidifying with each step. No grand gestures. No public declarations. No desperate attempts to prove himself worthy.

Just showing up.

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