I decided to go to Dartmouth College for a very practical, though entirely non-academic, reason: I wanted to be like the people I met there. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I figured that out clearly on a memorable Valentine’s Day my freshman year.

During a weekend visit to Hanover in the spring of 1979 as an accepted, but yet undecided, high school senior, I was impressed to the point of awe at how together, mature, self-directed and friendly Dartmouth students were. Thanks to a flimsy family connection to one of its members, it was my destiny to be dropped off for a weekend visit at Sigma Alpha Epsilon. I couldn’t have known then that some of my closest friends during the next four years, and for life, would be SAE brothers, though I never joined the Greek system.

Throughout that weather-perfect overnight stay enthusiastic young men and women within and without the fraternity cared for me. Every one of them instantly made my “all-time-cool-people” list.

When I finally made my choice, I had two major fears about attending Dartmouth. The first was financial, but a big aid package that included loans, work-study and grants provided fiscal confidence. The other fear was that I would not be up to the academic challenge. Though my freshman fall briefly allayed that fear, the winter term hit like a frozen sledgehammer. I racked up two C-minuses and one failure (damn you, “Math 4”). Injury embraced insult when my “hometown honey” ended our relationship of two-plus years in the midst of the quarter, casting emotional apocalypse over academic collapse.

I was rendered a defeated, broken-hearted mess. My mother encouraged me to “just come home.” She was achingly worried about my emotional state, hearing profound despair in too many tearful phone calls. I seriously thought about taking her up on the invitation.

On a typically freezing February night, darkness enveloping me, I sullenly walked alone to Thayer Dining Hall for dinner. Upon arrival I ran into a fellow freshman I had met in passing during freshman week, whom I’ll call Amelia. We sat together for that meal, two shy people with a gossamer of acquaintance.

Amelia was very soft-spoken, adorably small in stature and angelically pretty. It’s easy to report that in hindsight, though when I saw her that night my perception was too blurred with self-loathing to notice. During the meal I generously unloaded all of my troubles. She listened thoughtfully and attentively, saying a few soothing, encouraging words that I hardly heard and wouldn’t remember. Misery left me unreceptive to counsel. Looking back, I’m surprised she got in any words at all.

I moped away from dinner that night and wandered zombie-like through the next couple of days. I spent most of my waking hours contemplating what I would do when Dartmouth officially let me know that I wasn’t up to its standards. I spent most of my non-waking hours having nightmares about the same subject.

On one of those following days I woke with a lead-heavy spirit and blearily opened the door of 203D Little Hall, the cement-block room in the Choates I shared with Dave Badger ’83, my fellow freshman and rapidly rising star of a friend. Looking at the threshold I was surprised to find a single white carnation with a small card. The appearance of the flower reminded me it was Valentine’s Day—something I had ignored since I’d been crossed off my ex-sweetheart’s mailing list. There was a brief handwritten note on the card. I can’t remember the text exactly, but essentially it said: “I hope that things get better for you soon. Amelia.”

As I held the carnation and reread the message, my spirit rose from the mat. I was stunned, and delighted, by the heart behind such a gesture from someone I hardly knew. Amelia had survived my depressing monologue at Thayer and decided to help me weather the storm. I received the flower as a caring gift of hope. Amelia became the greatest example yet of why I wanted to be at Dartmouth: I became determined to build my life around people like her.

Amelia’s act of kindness opened up a hole in a massive wall of negativity I had been building around myself. I sought her out as soon as possible to thank her. She accepted my gratitude with a bashful smile and an admission that she thought it would help. She was gracious without taking much credit—yet to me she was a heroine.

I rarely saw Amelia on campus after that, though it did brighten my day each time I did. Had I been wiser, and less preoccupied with my ongoing academic boxing match, I would have designed ways to run into her more often and better get to know that attractive young woman who was capable of such caring. “Young and dumb” is what we call that in my family: YAD.

The College, in another unexpected act of kindness, did not ask me to leave. Instead, through the agency of Dean Karen Blank, Dartmouth encouraged me to reconsider my academic strategy. Maybe I wasn’t so well suited to engineering studies—as a cartoonist now, I chuckle at the polarity—but there were other paths I could explore. Most of all, Dean Blank let me know that Dartmouth accepted me because it wanted me. The College wanted me to be a part of the reason I found it such a desirable choice in the first place, and why others would after me. I still had a shot at being a Dartmouth person.

I did find a new academic focus with a visual studies major that put me in the groove I would have been wiser to start in. There would be no honors attached to my diploma, but I did earn one (despite recurring dreams to the contrary) with the aid of an extra term on campus. Against the odds, I even ended up with a major that connects with my career. I didn’t see that coming back in June of 1983.

After graduation I couldn’t help but think of Amelia’s golden-hearted act of kindness every time Valentine’s Day rolled around. In 1997 I decided to honor that memory by finding her address and sending a dozen carnations with a thank-you note for helping heal my battered spirit those many years before. Amelia received my gesture with warm gratitude, writing back that it came at a perfect time for her: She had recently endured a crushing personal tragedy. Her spirit had been raised by my thoughtfulness.

After that, our Valentine’s Day acts of kindness continued to connect Amelia and me every February 14 with a call, card or e-mail, though we were not generally in touch. When my first wife, Diana Golden ’84, passed in August 2001, Amelia found a way to get to the very well-attended funeral. Many of my closest, dearest Dartmouth friends overcame all hurdles to be at my side during that time. I was profoundly moved by, and grateful for, the loyalty and loving care they provided. My family and many other close friends were astounded by the character of those college pals and the sacrifices they made to be present when I most needed them. They not only brought their support but also jumped into the work of creating a meaningful, memorable memorial service for Diana, giving me the time I needed to care for our families—and myself. I still find it nearly incredible that I am blessed to have such friends.

In the crush of attendees greeting me after the memorial service, Amelia found her way through the thick crowd and delivered a comforting hug. I hadn’t seen her in more than a decade, yet she appeared unchanged. She handed me an envelope containing a sympathy card, and as I touched it I felt something attached to the back. Turning it over, I found three miniature carnations.

For Amelia and me, more intimate valentines now occupy their rightful places in our hearts. Her beloved husband and daughter get top priority on February 14, and I get to celebrate the holiday with my heaven-sent wife, Susan, and our 3-year-old son Teddy, the latter a blessing that qualifies as miraculous. Yes, I’m late in earning my degree in fatherhood and deeply grateful for the privilege every day.

I was recently in touch with Amelia as I worked on this essay, wanting her to know that I was writing about our valentine connection. As always she didn’t think she deserved the credit I was giving her—but she let me know that what we shared had yet another vibration. After she received the carnations I sent in 1997, she made a long-overdue trip to her mother’s gravesite, taking some of the flowers I sent to leave there. “I thought she’d like that,” Amelia wrote me.

Many 14ths of February have come and gone for Amelia and me since that cold, miserable winter of my freshman year, but our warm connection as Dartmouth valentines remains undying.

Steve Brosnihan is a cartoonist living in Bristol, Rhode Island. The resident cartoonist at Hasbro Children’s Hospital and cartoon guru at the Hole In the Wall Gang Camp, he is also the author of Anyone Can Draw Cartoonagrams.