My name is Brian, I’m 61. My first wife died eight years ago after a long illness, and since then I’ve lived in silence. My kids, now grown and busy, visit monthly—bringing money and drugs—and then leave quickly. I don’t blame them; I understand.
But on rainy nights, with tin-roof drips echoing, I feel so small and alone.
Last year, I found Alice—my first high school love—on Facebook. I adored her back then: long hair, dark eyes, a radiant smile. After she was sent to marry someone in southern India, we lost touch. Forty years later, we reconnected. She was a widow living with her younger son. We began chatting, then calling, then meeting. Soon I was riding over on my scooter with fruit, sweets, and joint pain medicine.
Half-joking one day, I asked: “What if we two old souls get married?” Her eyes filled with tears, and she nodded.
At 61, I remarried my first love.
On our wedding day I wore a maroon sherwani; she chose a simple cream saree with a pearl pin. Guests said we looked like young lovers. That night, after cleaning up, I poured her milk and locked up.
On our wedding night, I discovered scars—crisscrossing her back, shoulders, and arms. She quickly covered herself, frightened. She revealed her first husband had been abusive. She’d lived decades in secret dread and shame.
My heart broke. I comforted her: “It’s over now. You’ll never suffer again—not unless it’s the suffering of love.”
We spent the night quietly, listening to crickets and wind, stroking each other—no youthful frenzy, just peace. She whispered, “Thank you, for showing me someone cares.”
At 61, I realized true happiness isn’t money or passion—it’s companionship, a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on.
We don’t know how many days remain, but I vow to make up for her lost years—to cherish and protect her. This wedding night—after decades of longing—is life’s greatest gift.