My name is Brian. I’m 61 years old. Eight years ago, I lost my first wife after a long illness. Since then, silence has filled my home. My children, all married and busy with their own lives, visit once a month—dropping off money, medicine, and hurried goodbyes. I don’t blame them. But on rainy evenings, listening to the drops drum against the tin roof, I feel small. Forgotten.
Then, last year, I found Alice on Facebook.
She was my first love—long, flowing hair, dark eyes that held secrets, a smile that once lit up our high school classroom. But just as I was preparing for university exams, her family married her off to a man ten years older in southern India. We lost touch.
Forty years later, there she was. A widow now, her husband gone five years. She lived with her younger son, though he was rarely home.
At first, we exchanged polite messages. Then came phone calls. Then coffee. Before I knew it, I was riding my scooter to her house every few days, arms laden with fruit, sweets, and pain relievers for her aching joints.
One afternoon, half-joking, I asked, *"What if we got married? Two old souls chasing away loneliness?"*
Her eyes reddened. I fumbled, calling it a bad joke—but she smiled softly. Nodded.
Just like that, at 61, I remarried—my teenage sweetheart.
On our wedding day, I wore maroon; she wore cream silk, her hair pinned back with a single pearl. Friends teased, *"You look like young lovers again."* And for the first time in years, I *felt* young.
That night, after the guests left, I locked the gate, turned off the lights, and brought her warm milk. Our wedding night—something I never imagined at my age—had arrived.
Then I saw her scars.
As I gently removed her blouse, my breath caught. Her back, shoulders, and arms were a patchwork of discolored marks, old wounds mapping decades of pain. She jerked the blanket up, eyes wide with shame.
*"Meena,"* I whispered, trembling. *"What happened?"*
She turned away. *"He had a temper. I never told anyone."*
Tears blurred my vision. For years, she’d suffered in silence. I took her hand and pressed it to my chest. *"No one will hurt you again. No one has that right. Except me—but only because I love you too much."*
She cried then, silent sobs shaking her fragile frame.
We didn’t spend our wedding night like young lovers. We lay side by side, listening to crickets and rustling leaves. I stroked her hair; she touched my cheek and whispered, *"Thank you—for proving someone still cares."*
At 61, I’ve learned happiness isn’t money or the fiery passions of youth. It’s a hand to hold. A shoulder to lean on. Someone who stays awake just to feel your heartbeat.
I don’t know how many days I have left. But I do know this: I’ll spend every one making up for what she lost. Loving her. Protecting her.
Because after 50 years of longing and missed chances, this—*her*—is the greatest gift life could ever give me.
