When my son was about nine, we walked into a drugstore on Feb. 15, the day after Valentine’s Day. Clearance tables cluttered the front, stacked high with heart-shaped boxes dotted with red foil-wrapped chocolates, a veritable chocolate forest. Like Christmas stars, these piles were topped with 50% off signs.

His eyes were wide as he assessed the towers of candy. He said, “That’s half off. Is there something wrong with it?”

“No buddy, it’s the next day. Any Valentine’s Day stuff that hasn’t sold gets marked down.”

“When I have a girlfriend, I’m going to hide on Valentine’s Day, then buy her chocolates the following day.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Despite his young age, he was already showing signs of being frugal to a fault. This did not bode well for his romantic future.

“Yeah. Then I can buy twice as much stuff.”

Okay, maybe he wouldn’t grow up to be a cheapskate after all.

His father tends to miss the holiday altogether. Roses, chocolates and greeting cards would appear when the kids lived at home. The girls, especially, would guilt him into it. This year, he did remember. Bill proudly announced, “For Valentine’s Day, I’m putting a hitch on your car for a bike rack.”

“A hitch, for Valentine’s Day? For the bike rack that you wanted?” I gave him the side eye.

“Let’s just say, I’m so happy that I’m still hitched to you.”

Who says romance is dead?

Seriously, though, for all the commercial pressure placed on Feb. 14, it’s really the next day and all the others that matter. And that’s where my husband shines. When I had to deal with a medical issue, he became my home health aide, my therapist and my chef. He ventured into unknown territory — for the first time finding internet recipes and setting mouse traps. (For our entire marriage, I set them, and he emptied them.) Sure, he may have set a few microwavable heating pads on fire, but he was patient and supportive. No need for roses and conversation hearts when actions speak for themselves. Valentine’s Day might forever be a wash, but I know that on the next day, when it really counts, he’ll be there.

I checked in with my mom the day after the Super Bowl. She’s 90, White, Christian and non-Spanish speaking. Her musical tastes lean more to Patsy Cline than Latin trap. Before I even had a chance to say hello, she announced, “That was the best halftime show I’ve seen in years.” It meant so much to her that it focused on joy, hope, and family–she deeply valued that narrative. Afterall, what is a language barrier when the storyline focuses on love? The next day, she was still basking in the glow of Bad Bunny’s message.

We live in a loud, performative world. Spectacles have taken the place of quiet gestures. We post even the most mundane moments of our lives. We stage and pose for what should be spontaneous moments. Shouting and repetition have replaced careful consideration of facts. It’s hard to escape underlying turmoil. It’s hard to know what is sincere or what is merely fabricated sincerity.

But true hope and joy do seep in, even through commercial endeavors. While we might feel good when we repost, “The only thing more powerful than hate is love,” it is the quiet action of the next day that will really matter.