I turned 58 this year. My first wife passed away seven years ago after a serious illness. Since then, I’ve been living a quiet, lonely life. All my children are married. Every month they come, give some money, medicines, and leave early.

I don’t blame them. They’re busy — I understand. But on stormy rainy nights, lying in bed, listening to the sound of heavy rain on the tin roof, I feel very small and heartbroken.

 

Last year I was scrolling through Facebook when suddenly I found my first high school girlfriend. I loved her back then — she had long, wavy hair, her eyes sparkling and her smile lit up the entire class. But while I was still preparing for my college entrance exam, her family married her off to a man from the South who was ten years older than me.

 

After that, we lost contact. Forty years later, we met again. She was a widow — her husband had passed away two years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, who was away from home for work and rarely came back.

 

In the beginning, we used to message just to know the situation. Then we started calling. We started meeting again over coffee. And I didn’t even realize it, every few days, I found myself on a scooter to her house carrying a bag of fruit, a box of sweet biscuits, and some tonic for the joints.

 

One day, jokingly, I said:

 

“Why don’t we both get married and continue to be each other’s support?”

 

Suddenly, tears started flowing from her eyes. I was very nervous and tried to explain to her that it was a joke, but she smiled and shook her head gently.

 

And so, at 58, I remarried — to my first love.

 

On our wedding day, I wore a dark brown brocade kurta. She was dressed in a plain white silk saree, her now grown brown hair pinned with a small pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to congratulate him. Everyone said, “You two look like teenagers again.” ”

 

And to be honest, I was also feeling younger. It was 10 o’clock at night by the time we finished the wedding feast last night. She made me a glass of warm milk, then went outside to close the gate and turn off the lights.

 

Our wedding night — a night I never thought I’d be able to experience again in old age — has finally arrived.

 

But as soon as I took off her saree, I jumped in shock…

Shocked and broke my heart to see this…

 

As I took off her saree, my hands were trembling. It wasn’t just the clothes I was removing; It was decades of waiting, lost time, and the unspoken hope of a new beginning. I had the image of her from her high school days—the girl with skin as smooth as a peach blossom, a thin waist, and eyes full of mischievous gleam.

But when the last edge of the saree separated from her body, I jumped in shock. No sound came out of my mouth, and my heartbeat stopped.

It wasn’t what I imagined in my youth, or what I remembered 40 years ago.

Underneath her saree, she was wearing a thin, loose, light blue nightgown. It was the old, washed-out thing that probably belonged to her late husband.

And this nightgown wasn’t just a garment on her body—it was an armor.

She was hiding herself in such a way that I realized the full seriousness of her past. Her body, which now bore the marks of old age, wasn’t just full of wrinkles or loose skin. On his arms and shoulders, there were thin, vaguely burnt skins, and on his stomach, even under the clothes, large, strange scars were visible that were distinct from the scars of the operation.

But the biggest shock was not scars.

It was his face.

He hurriedly folded his arms around his chest, his eyes fixed on the ground. There was an expression of shame, fear, and a deep, strange sadness on her face.

She was still the same beautiful woman, but an invisible veil hung over her beauty, hiding her from the world and me.

My heart broke, but it wasn’t because his body wasn’t young anymore. My heart broke because I realized how much pain the person I remembered as my girlfriend must have endured—and he had hidden it all from me.

I sat down on the edge of the bed.

“This… What is it?” My voice was barely a whisper.

He still didn’t look up. Tears began to fall from his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know what you’re thinking. ”

“I’m not thinking about what you think I’m thinking,” I said quickly. “I don’t care about your body, I love you.” But this… What are these marks?”

He raised his head slightly. His eyes were red. “This… This was when I was with my first husband. ”

For a minute, I felt like my ears were ringing. “You mean, he… Hurt you?”

She nodded softly.

“A month after the wedding, he started drinking. And then… He was always angry. When his hand was raised, he didn’t look at me. He could only see his disappointment. ”

Hearing his words, my blood boiled. The man to whom her family had married her had crippled my girlfriend physically and mentally.

“Once… When I was pregnant, he threw a burning cigarette on my saree because I didn’t cook quickly,” she said, pointing to the thin, white scar on her arm. “That was a small scar, but on my back… On the stomach… yes I had to undergo an operation to save the children. ”

My throat choked. Forty years ago, I was preparing for my entrance exam, chasing my dreams. And this woman, the woman I loved, was going through this hell.

I got up and sat down next to him.

“My love,” I said, there was unfathomable tenderness in my voice. “How did you put up with all this alone?”

He finally looked up. “I thought I shouldn’t tell anyone. I thought you’d leave me. You will leave me again, just like you did 40 years ago. ”

“I never left you,” I protested. “Your family took you away from me. If I knew what you were going through, I would follow you to the other corner of the world. ”

I gently took his trembling hands in mine. Her skin was cold and slightly moist.

“I love you, and I will never leave you again,” I vowed. “And I won’t ask you anything you’re not ready for right now.” ”

That night, our wedding night, we shared no physical intimacy.

Instead, we shared conversations. I hugged her tightly, and she cried on my shoulder—probably tears accumulated over the years. I stroked her back gently, and with every touch, I told her that she was safe, that she deserved love, and that she was beautiful.

It was the most intimate night of our wedding. It was the night we undressed our emotions, unraveled our secrets, and began to heal our broken parts with each other’s love.

The next morning, when the sun’s rays came in through the window, I woke up. She had her hands on my chest, and she was sleeping peacefully.

I realized that at the age of 58, I couldn’t get back what I had lost. Rather, I am making a fresh start for the woman who suffered so much.

 

New life together

 

From that day on, our relationship changed. We weren’t just two elderly people who came together to escape loneliness. We became the healers of two wounds.

When I used to go to pick vegetables on the scooter, I no longer just brought joints tonics. I also brought her new, lightweight, comfortable nightgowns—pink, yellow, green—but she always put them aside.

One evening, I pulled out a soft, woolen shawl from my first wife’s wardrobe, which my first wife wore.

“Put it on,” I said. “It’s hot. ”

She accepted it happily, and that night she took off her nightgown under that shawl for the first time. It was a small win for us. A month later, she decided to sew a new dark brown kurta for me, exactly the same as the one I wore on the wedding day. While she was working on the sewing machine, I noticed that there was a new sparkle in her eyes. This glow was not the mischievous glow of a high school girl, but a flash of confidence—the confidence of a woman who knew she was worthy of love.

 

The day when my heart was full

 

A year later, on our first wedding anniversary, I gave her a small gold locket.

“Don’t lose it,” I said jokingly.

When she turned to put it on, I was shocked.

She had never left her arms completely open until today, but today she wore a half-sleeved blouse. Her scars were still there, but they didn’t seem to be signs of shame anymore. They seemed to be signs of survival.

“Are you okay?” I asked, surprise in my voice.

She smiled and said, “Yes.” I’m not ashamed anymore. I’m not afraid anymore. ”

That evening, we called our friends and kids. They came, they greeted us, and when I went outside to close the door, I saw that she was talking to her little son.

“Mom, you look great,” her son said.

He held his son’s hand tightly, and looked at me.

“I don’t have any worries about myself anymore,” she said. “Now I have what was always mine. ”

As night fell, I made tea in the kitchen. When I came back into the room, she took off her gold bangles, and she was taking off her nightgown—but this time, she tossed it aside.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. “I can’t wait any longer,” she blushed.

When I saw him, I was overwhelmed with love. His body was changed, yes, but his soul was now free.

I touched his hand with my old, wrinkled hands. “I love you,” I said.

And this time, at the age of 59, our wedding night was over—it was no longer just a physical event, but the union of one soul with another. We found love in old age, and at the same time, we erased the pain that happened 40 years ago.

 

A new beginning

 

We both had become each other’s support now. We were no longer alone. Every night, when the sound of a stormy rain came, I didn’t feel alone anymore. I held my wife tightly, and I knew we were together now.

Our children have also seen the change. They were no longer just giving money or medicines. They sat with us now.

“You’re both grown up again,” my daughter-in-law said one day.

And I smiled. “Yes.” Love has no age. And sometimes, you just have to give a chance, to give that love a fresh start. ”

Our life was now a simple, but contented life—a life where there were no secrets, no fear, and only immeasurable love for each other.