My name is Michael, and I’m 61 years old. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I’ve lived alone and in silence. My children are now married and have their own lives. Once a month, they stop by my house, drop off some money and medicine, and then quickly leave.

I don’t blame them. They have their own responsibilities, and I understand. But on rainy nights, lying in bed listening to the drops hit the tin roof, I feel incredibly small… and alone.

Last year, while scrolling through Facebook, I found Emily—my first high school crush. I adored her back then. She had long, silky hair, deep-set black eyes, and a smile so bright it lit up the entire classroom. But just as I was preparing for the college entrance exam, her family arranged for her to marry a man from South India—ten years her senior.

We lost touch. Forty years passed. And then, fate brought us back together. She was also a widow. Her husband had died five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, although he worked in another city and rarely came home.

At first, we just said hello. Then we started calling each other. Then came the coffees, the short visits. And before I knew it, I found myself riding my scooter to his house every few days, carrying a basket of fruit, sweets, and some supplements for joint pain.

One day, half jokingly, I said to him:

— “What if… two old souls like us got married? Wouldn’t loneliness be more bearable?”

To my surprise, her eyes turned red. I quickly said it was just a joke—but she smiled sweetly and nodded.

And so, at 61, I remarried… to my first love.

On the wedding day, I wore a dark wine-colored sherwani. She wore a simple cream-colored silk sari. Her hair was pinned back with a small pearl hairpin. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. Everyone said, “They look like young bride and groom again.”

And honestly, that’s how I felt. That night, after cleaning everything, it was almost ten o’clock. I made her a glass of warm milk and went outside to close the gate and turn off the porch lights.

Our wedding night—something I never imagined I’d experience again at this age—had finally arrived.

As I carefully removed her blouse, I froze.

His back, shoulders, and arms were marked by deep stains—ancient scars crisscrossed his skin like a tragic map. I stood still, my heart sinking.

Startled, she quickly covered herself with a blanket, her eyes wide with fear. In a trembling voice, I asked:

— “Emily… what happened to you?”

He turned around, his voice breaking:

— “Back then… he had a terrible temper. He shouted… he hit me… I never told anyone…”

I sat next to her, my eyes brimming with tears. My soul ached. Decades lived in silence—in fear, in shame—without telling anyone. I took her hand, placing it gently on my chest.

— “That’s it… You’re safe now. No one will hurt you again. No one has the right to make you suffer ever again… except me — but only because I love you too much.”

She burst into tears—soft, shaky cries that filled the room. I held her tightly. Her back was fragile, her bones barely protruding—that small woman had endured a lifetime of pain in silence.

Our wedding night wasn’t like that of young couples. We simply lay side by side, listening to the crickets in the yard, the wind swaying the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She touched my cheek and whispered:

— “Thank you. Thank you for showing me that there’s still someone in this world who cares about me.”

I smiled. At 61, I finally understood: happiness isn’t money or the unbridled passions of youth. It’s having a hand to hold you, a shoulder to lay your head on, someone who will sit by your side all night just to listen to your heartbeat.

Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But one thing I’m very clear about: I will dedicate the rest of her life to giving her back everything that was taken from her.
I will take care of her. I will protect her.
So that she will never have to be afraid again.

Because for me, this wedding night—after half a century of longing, missed opportunities, and silent waiting—is the greatest gift life has ever given me.