I’m Arjun, and I’ll be 61 this year. My first wife died eight years ago from a serious illness. Since then, I’ve lived a lonely life. My children are all married, and they only visit once a month to bring me money and medicine before leaving quickly.
I didn’t blame my children because I knew they were busy. But on rainy nights, listening to the rain on the tin roof, I felt very small and lonely.
Last year, I went on Facebook and happened to find Pooja, my first crush from high school. Back then, she had long hair, dark eyes, and a bright smile. I liked her a lot, but while I was preparing for my college exams, her family married her off to a man 10 years older and moved far away.
We lost contact after that. Forty years later, we met again. She was a widow—her husband had died five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, but he worked far away and rarely came home.
At first, we only texted to say hello. Then we started calling. Then we met for coffee. After that, I found myself driving to see her every few days, bringing fruit, pastries, and some medicine for her joints.
One time I joked, “Why don’t we two old folks get married so we won’t be lonely anymore?”
To my surprise, her eyes filled with tears. I got nervous and tried to explain, but she just laughed and nodded.
And so, at 61, I married my first love again.
On our wedding day, I wore a dark brown suit, and she wore a white silk sari. She tied her hair back with a small pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate with us, saying, “You both look young again.”
I truly felt young. That night, after cleaning up from the wedding party, it was nearly 10 p.m. I made her a cup of hot milk, locked the doors, and turned off the porch lights.
Our wedding night—something I never thought I’d have again at this age—had finally come.
But when I took off her sari, I was shocked. Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered with old, dark scars. I froze, feeling a sharp pain in my heart.
She quickly pulled the blanket over herself, her eyes full of fear. In a trembling voice, I asked:
“What… what happened, Pooja?”
He turned his face away and spoke softly:
“In the past, he often got angry… he scolded me, treated me badly… I never dared to tell anyone…”
I lay down beside her, tears running down my face. My heart hurt for her. She had lived in fear and shame for so many years, unable to share her pain with anyone. Gently, I held her hand and pressed it to my chest:
“From now on, no one will hurt you again. No one has that right. Only me—but I promise I will only bring you happiness.”
She began to cry softly, her body shaking. I wrapped my arms around her. She was so thin and fragile, yet she had carried so much strength and silence all her life.
Our wedding night was not like young couples. We just lay together, listening to the crickets and the wind in the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She touched my face and whispered:
“Thank you. Thank you for showing me that someone still loves me.”
I smiled. At 61, I finally realized that true happiness is not about money or youthful passion. In old age, it means having a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and someone willing to stay beside you just to listen to your heartbeat.
Tomorrow will come, though I don’t know how many tomorrows we still have. But I do know this: for the rest of her life, I will give her all the love she missed. I will protect her so she will never be afraid again.
Because for me, this wedding night is the greatest gift life has given—after more than fifty years of longing and waiting.