In the spring of 1997, on a quiet beach under the setting sun, I asked Jessica to marry me.

I’d hidden a conch shell along an empty stretch of sand. And inside was an oversized toy ring, one that flashed rainbow lights when pressed.

As we walked the shore, I slowly nudged her toward the shell. Then, with some of my best acting, I pretended to find it. “Wow, what’s this?” When I handed her the conch, my finger tapped the ring, and her face suddenly lit up with colors.

Before she realized what was happening, I had dropped to one knee. In my hand was a velvet box with the real sparkling jewel.

And thankfully, she said yes. An unforgettable evening.

Now, 27 married years and five grown kids later, she still wears that diamond. And the conch shell? It rests on a table in our bedroom.

This morning, our daughter Kate texted, “What are you guys doing for Valentine’s?”

My reply: “Every day is Valentine’s.”

I wasn’t joking.

February 14 reminds me of love stories. And ours? It will always be my favorite.