At 61, I remarried my first love: On our wedding night, as I undressed my wife, I felt stunned and broken by the sight of…
My name is Rajeev, and I’m 61. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I’ve been living quietly alone. All my children are married and settled. Once a month, they come to give me some money and medicine, then quickly leave. I don’t blame them. They have their own lives, and I understand. But on rainy nights, listening to the sound of drops falling on the tin roof, I feel unbearably small and alone.
Last year, I was scrolling through Facebook when I came across Meena – my first love from high school. I was deeply in love with her at the time. She had long, wavy hair, deep black eyes, and a smile so bright it would light up the entire classroom. But while I was preparing for my university entrance exams, her family arranged her marriage to a man from South India—ten years her senior.

After that, we lost touch. Forty years later, we met again. She was now a widow—her husband had passed away five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, but he worked in another city and rarely visited.

At first, we just exchanged greetings. Then we started calling. Then coffee meetings began. And, unbeknownst to me, I began driving to her house every few days on my scooter, carrying a small basket of fruit, some sweets, and some joint pain medication.

One day, jokingly, I said:

“What if… we two old hearts got married? Wouldn’t that ease the loneliness?”

To my surprise, her eyes turned red. I was confused, trying to explain that it was a joke – but she smiled gently and shook her head.

Dã tạo hình ảnh

And just like that, at the age of 61, I got married again – to my first love.

On our wedding day, I wore a deep maroon sherwani. She wore a simple cream-colored silk sari. Her hair was neatly tied and adorned with a small pearl pin. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. Everyone said, “You two look like young lovers again.”

And to be honest, I felt young. That night, after cleaning up the feast, it was around 10 p.m. I made her a glass of warm milk, closed the front door, and turned off the veranda lights.

Our wedding night—something I never imagined I’d experience again in my old age—had finally arrived.

As I slowly removed her blouse, I froze.

Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered in deep scars—old marks scattered like a tragic map. I stood there, my heart aching.

She quickly pulled a blanket over herself, her eyes wide with fear. I asked, trembling:

“Meena… what happened to you?”

She turned away, her voice choked:

“Back then… he was short-tempered. He would yell… hit me… I never told anyone…”

I sat beside her with a heavy heart, tears welling in my eyes. My heart ached for her. For so many decades, she had lived in silence—in fear and shame—never told anyone. I took her hand and gently placed it on my heart.

“Everything is okay now. From today on, no one will ever hurt you again. No one has the right to hurt you… except me—but only because I love you so much.”

She burst into tears—slow, trembling sobs that echoed throughout the room. I embraced her. Her back was weak, her bones slightly prominent—a tiny woman who had suffered a lifetime of silence and pain.

Our wedding night wasn’t like those of young couples. We just lay next to each other, listening to the crickets chirping in the courtyard and the wind rustling through the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She touched my cheek and whispered:

“Thank you. Thank you for showing me that someone in this world still cares about me.”

I smiled. At 61, I finally understood: happiness isn’t money or the unbridled passion of youth. It’s a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and someone who will sit with you all night, just feeling your heartbeat.

Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But one thing I know for sure: for the rest of her life, I will make up for her. I will treasure her. I will protect her so she never has to fear anything again.

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