My name is Brian, and I’m 61 years old. I lost my first wife eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I’ve been living alone. My children are all married and settled. They visit about once a month to drop off money or medication before hurrying off. I don’t blame them—they have their own lives. But during those lonely, rainy nights, listening to the rain tapping the tin roof, I often feel incredibly small and forgotten.
Last year, while scrolling through Facebook, I stumbled across Alice—my first love from high school. I adored her back then. She had beautiful, flowing hair, deep brown eyes, and a radiant smile that could brighten any classroom. But just before I was set to begin university, her family arranged her marriage to a man in southern India who was ten years older than her. After that, we lost contact.
After 40 long years, we reconnected. She was a widow—her husband had passed away five years prior. She lived with her younger son, though he worked in another city and only visited occasionally. We began with small greetings. Then we started calling. Eventually, we met for coffee. Before I knew it, I was riding my scooter to her house every few days, bringing fruit, sweets, and joint pain tablets.
One day, half-joking, I said, “What if we two old souls get married? Wouldn’t that take away the loneliness?” To my surprise, her eyes welled up. I tried to explain it was just a joke, but she simply smiled and nodded. And just like that, I remarried at 61—to the woman I first fell in love with.
Our wedding was simple. I wore a deep maroon sherwani, and she wore a cream silk saree. Her hair was neatly tied back, adorned with a pearl pin. Friends and neighbors gathered and said, “You two look like teenagers in love.” I felt young again.
That night, after cleaning up the celebration, I made her a warm glass of milk and locked the front gate. I turned off the lights, and our long-awaited wedding night finally arrived. As I slowly removed her blouse, I froze. Her back, arms, and shoulders were covered in old scars, discolored like a painful roadmap.
She quickly wrapped herself in a blanket, her eyes filled with fear. I was speechless and asked, “Meena… what happened?” She turned away, her voice trembling. “He had a bad temper. He would scream and hit me. I never told anyone.” I sat beside her, my eyes filled with tears. My heart broke for her. She had endured decades of suffering in silence. I held her hand and placed it over my heart. “It’s okay now. No one will ever hurt you again. The only pain you’ll feel now is how deeply I love you.”
She cried quietly, her shoulders shaking. I held her close, feeling how fragile she was. This petite woman had survived a life of quiet pain. Our wedding night was unlike any young couple’s. We simply lay side by side, listening to the wind and crickets. I stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, and she gently touched my face and whispered, “Thank you—for reminding me someone still cares.”
At that moment, I understood that true happiness isn’t found in wealth or the fiery passion of youth. It’s found in the comfort of companionship, in having a hand to hold, and someone to sit with through the night. Tomorrow will come. I don’t know how many tomorrows I have left. But one thing is clear: for every day we have, I will love her, protect her, and make sure she never feels pain again.
This wedding night, after five decades of waiting, missed chances, and longing, is the most precious gift life has given me.