My father was worried about loneliness in his old age, so he married a young wife 20 years his junior. On the wedding day, he was so happy that he quickly took his wife to the bridal chamber. A short while later, we heard my aunt crying. We pushed the door open and ran inside. We found my aunt huddled in a corner of the room, while my father…
My father’s name is Narayan Ji, 65 years old, and he lives in Jaipur (Rajasthan). He is strong-willed, has gone through many ups and downs, but still maintains an optimistic spirit. My mother passed away when my younger brother and I were young, and he raised us single-handedly with all his love and sacrifice. For many years, he refused to remarry, saying that the two of us were enough.

But after we got married and had children, my father gradually became less vocal and more reclusive. He would sit by the window for hours, staring at the streets of the Pink City without a word. Whenever we came home, they would laugh and talk loudly; but when we left, the house would fall silent.

I didn’t want my father to always be alone, so after much deliberation, my younger brother and I decided to find someone who could be his companion and care for him in his old age. At first, my father strongly objected, saying that he was old enough to no longer need to marry. We patiently explained to him: “Not just for my father, but for us too. We feel more secure when someone is with my father.”

Finally, my father relented. After much searching, the family met Rekha—a woman 20 years younger than my father, humble, honest, and a kindergarten teacher in Jaipur. Rekha had never been married and said she was willing to care for my father and be his companion.

The wedding day, according to Hindu rituals, was a delightful one: under the mandap, my father wore a new sherwani, looking remarkably youthful; the bride, Rekha, wore a beautiful cream-white sari. The two circumambulated around the sacred fire, my father skillfully placing a mangalsutra on her head and applying sindoor. All the relatives blessed them; everyone was amazed to see my father glowing like a young man.

The party ended, and my father happily led the bride away for the wedding night so quickly that we burst out laughing. I joked with my younger brother:
“Look at Dad, he’s even more nervous than he was at the wedding.”

My younger brother patted my shoulder:
“He’s almost 70, but still so energetic!”

Just when we thought everything was going well, about an hour later, Rekha’s crying voice came from the room. The whole family was shocked and stunned…

“Papa! What happened?”
No one answered, only sobs. I pushed the door open and rushed inside.
I was stunned by the sight before me: Rekha was huddled in the corner of the room, her eyes red, her arms tightly clutching her knees, her breathing heavy. My father was sitting on the bed, his clothes disheveled, his face filled with confusion and panic. The atmosphere was suffocating.

I asked:
— “What happened?”
Rekha’s voice trembled:
— “I… I can’t… I’m not used to this…”
My father mumbled, his face red:
— “Papa… I didn’t mean anything bad. I just… I wanted to hug her. She started crying loudly, and I was confused and didn’t know what to do.”

We helped Rekha calm down. My father sat there, his hands clasped together, shaking slightly. I understood: one night was too much for both of them—one was used to being alone for so long, and the other was completely unaware of marriage and the age gap.

The next morning, when everything had calmed down, I sat down to talk to my father and Aunt Rekha. I said softly:
—“It takes time to get along. No one needs to do anything they’re not ready for. From now on, you and Aunt will proceed slowly: start with conversations, take morning walks in Central Park, cook together, watch TV. If you feel comfortable, hold hands, lean on each other. As for personal matters, let it be natural when you both want to. If necessary, I’ll ask my older uncles or a marriage counselor to discuss it further.”

My father sighed, but his eyes softened:
— “I didn’t expect it to be so difficult. I… I had forgotten what it was like to be with someone.”

Rekha nodded softly:
—“I’m nervous too. I don’t want to make Uncle Nam feel uncomfortable. Give me… more time.”

We temporarily agreed to sleep in separate rooms, maintaining a gentle boundary, prioritizing our spouses first, then our own. In the afternoon, I saw Dad and Rekha sitting on the balcony, making hot tea, talking about the garden and the kindergarten children. There was no crying anymore, just soft questions and shy smiles.

The marriage of a 65-year-old man and a 45-year-old woman is measured not by the wedding night, but by the patience of each day: respect, listening, and learning to walk together again. And we – the children – understand that helping Dad isn’t about forcing him into a rushed marriage, but about taking small steps around him so he can escape loneliness into safety and warmth.

“Dad! What happened?”
No one answered, only sobs. I pushed the door open and went inside.

I was stunned by the sight before me: Rekha was huddled in the corner of the room, her eyes red, her arms tightly clutching her knees, her breathing heavy. My father was sitting on the bed, his clothes disheveled, his face filled with confusion and panic. The atmosphere was suffocating.

I asked:
— “What happened?”
Rekha’s voice trembled:
— “I… I can’t… I’m not used to this…”
My father mumbled, his face red:
— “Papa… I didn’t mean anything bad. I just… wanted to hug her. She started crying loudly, and I was confused and didn’t know what to do.”

We helped Rekha calm down. My father remained sitting there, his hands clasped together, shaking slightly. I understood: one night was too much for both of them—one was used to being alone for so long, and the other was completely unaware of marriage and the age gap.

The next morning, when everything calmed down, I sat down to talk to my father and Aunt Rekha. I said softly:
—“It takes time to get along. No one needs to do anything they’re not ready for. From now on, you and Aunt Rekha will proceed slowly: start with conversations, take morning walks in Central Park, cook together, watch TV. If you feel comfortable, hold hands, lean on each other. As for personal matters, let it be natural when you both want to. If necessary, I’ll ask my older uncles or a marriage counselor to discuss it further.”

My father sighed, but his eyes softened:
—“I didn’t expect it to be so difficult. I… I forgot what it’s like to be with someone.”

Rekha nodded softly:
—“I’m nervous too. I don’t want to make Uncle Nam feel uncomfortable. Give me… more time.”

We temporarily agreed to sleep in separate rooms, maintaining a gentle boundary, prioritizing our spouses first, then our own. In the afternoon, I saw Dad and Rekha sitting on the balcony, making hot tea, talking about the garden and the kindergarten children. There was no crying anymore, just soft questions and shy smiles.

The marriage of a 65-year-old man and a 45-year-old woman is measured not by the wedding night, but by the patience of each day: respect, listening, and learning to walk together again. And we – the children – understand that helping Dad isn’t about forcing him into a rushed marriage, but about taking small steps around him so he can emerge from loneliness into safety and warmth.