At 61 years old, I married my first love. On our wedding night, as I gently took off her dress, I was shocked and heartbroken to see…
My first wife passed away eight years ago, after a long illness.
Since then, I’ve lived alone, in silence.
My children are all married and settled. Once a month, they drop by to leave some money and my medicine… and then leave right away.
I don’t hold it against them. They have their own lives, and I understand.
But on rainy nights, lying in bed listening to the drops hitting the tin roof, I feel incredibly small and alone.
Last year, while scrolling through Facebook, I stumbled upon Meena—my first love from high school.
I adored her back then. She had long, silky hair, deep black eyes, and a smile so bright it could light up the whole classroom.
But while I was preparing for my university entrance exams, her family arranged for her to marry a man from southern Mexico—ten years older than her.
We lost touch after that.
Forty years later, we found each other again.
She was a widow now; her husband had passed away five years earlier.
She lived with her youngest son, but he worked in another city and rarely came home.
At first, we only exchanged greetings.
Then we started talking on the phone.
Soon after, we began meeting for coffee.
Before I realized it, I was riding my motorcycle to her house every few days, bringing a small basket of fruit, sweets, and supplements for joint pain.
One day, half-joking, I said,
— “What if… these two old folks got married? Maybe the loneliness would be easier to bear that way.”
To my surprise, her eyes filled with tears.
I quickly clarified that I was only joking, but she smiled softly and nodded.
And so, at 61, I married my first love.
On our wedding day, I wore a dark brown traditional Mexican suit.
She wore a simple cream-colored silk dress.
Her hair was neatly tied up, adorned with a small pearl clip.
Friends and neighbors came to celebrate.
Everyone said, “You two look like young lovers!”
And honestly, I felt young too.
That night, after tidying up the house, it was almost ten o’clock.
I made her a glass of warm milk, then went to lock the front door and turn off the porch lights.
Our wedding night—something I never imagined I’d experience again at my age—was about to begin.
As I gently took off her blouse, I froze.
Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered in deep scars—old marks, crossing one another like a tragic map.
I stopped, my heart tightening.
She quickly pulled a blanket over herself, her eyes wide with fear.
Trembling, I asked,
— “Meena… what happened to you?”
She turned to me, her voice breaking:
— “Back then… he had a terrible temper. He yelled… hit me… I never told anyone…”
I sat down beside her heavily, tears welling in my eyes.
My heart ached for her.
All those years she had lived in silence, in shame, without telling a soul.
I took her hand and placed it gently over my chest.
— “It’s over now. From today on, no one will ever hurt you again.
No one has the right to make you suffer anymore… except me—but only for loving you too much.”
She broke down crying—soft, trembling sobs that filled the room.
I held her tightly.
Her back was fragile, her bones thin—the body of a small woman who had endured a lifetime of silence and pain.
Our wedding night was not like that of the young.
We simply lay side by side, listening to the crickets in the garden, the wind through the trees.
I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.
She brushed my cheek and whispered,
— “Thank you. Thank you for showing me that there’s still someone in this world who cares for me.”
I smiled.
At 61, I finally understood:
Happiness doesn’t come from money, or from the fiery passions of youth.
It’s having a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and someone who stays 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 is certain: for the rest of my life, I will repair what she lost.
I will love her, care for her, and protect her—so she’ll never have to be afraid again.
Because for me, this wedding night—after half a century of waiting, regrets, and loneliness—is the most beautiful gift life has ever given me.