I’m Andrew , turning 61 this year. My first wife passed away eight years ago from a serious illness. During all those years, I lived a lonely life. My children were all married and would come every month to give me money and medicine, and then they would rush off.

I didn’t blame my children. They were busy; I understood that. But on some rainy nights, lying there listening to the rain on the tin roof, I felt terribly small and alone.

Last year, I logged into Facebook and accidentally found  Pooja , my first crush from high school. I had a crush on Pooja back then. She had waist-length hair, dark eyes, and a radiant smile. But while I was still busy preparing for my college entrance exams, her family married her off to a man 10 years older than her and moved to a distant city.

We lost touch after that. Forty years later, we reconnected, and she was a widow. Her husband had died five years earlier, and she lived with her youngest son, but he worked far away and rarely returned home.

At first, we just texted to check in. Then we called. Then we met for coffee. And then, for some reason, every few days, I drove to visit her, bringing her some fruit, a box of pastries, and some joint supplements.

I once joked:

“How about… We two old people get married to avoid loneliness?”

To my surprise, her eyes turned red. I was nervous and started to explain, but she laughed and nodded.

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

On our wedding day, I wore a traditional dark brown suit, and she wore a white silk sari. Her hair was simply tied back with a small pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to congratulate us. They all said, “You two look young again.”

I really felt young. That night, after we finished cleaning up the wedding party, it was almost 10 p.m. I made her a cup of hot milk, then laboriously locked the doors and turned off the porch lights.

Our wedding night, the night I thought I’d never have again in my old age, had finally arrived.

When I removed my wife’s sari, I was startled. All over her back, shoulders, and arms were long, dark, old scars. I froze, a pang of pain piercing my heart.

She quickly covered herself with the blanket, her eyes wide with fear. I asked, my voice trembling:

“What… What is this, Pooja?

He turned his face away, his voice muffled:

“In the old days, he used to get angry… he was verbally abusive, difficult… I never dared tell anyone…”

I sank into bed, unable to hold back my tears. My heart ached for her, a deep, twisting pain. It turned out she’d lived in fear and humiliation for decades, afraid to share her pain with anyone. Gently, I took her hand and placed it on my chest:

“Okay… From now on, no one will hurt you again. No one has the right to hurt you anymore… except me, but I will only bring you happiness.”

She began to cry. A stifled sound, small, but shaky. I took her in my arms and held her tightly. Her back was thin, her bones protruding, but this tiny woman had spent her entire life in silent resilience.

Our wedding night wasn’t like that of young couples. We simply lay side by side, listening to the crickets chirping outside and the wind rustling through the leaves. I stroked her hair and gently kissed her forehead. She also stroked my cheek and whispered:

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

I smiled. At 61, I finally understood that happiness sometimes isn’t about money, it isn’t about the passionate days of youth. But in old age, it’s about having a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and someone willing to sit next to you all night just to hear your heartbeat.

Tomorrow will come. I don’t know how much longer we have. But I’m sure of one thing: for the rest of her life, I will make up for what she lost, I will love and cherish her so that she will no longer fear anything.

Because for me, this wedding night is the greatest gift life has given me, after half a century of longing, missing, and waiting.