The grandfather who married his caregiver at 80.

I’m 80 years old and I just married Carmen, my caregiver. My children are furious, my grandchildren won’t speak to me, and the whole family looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. But here I am, in my own living room, waiting for them to arrive so we can have “the conversation” they’ve been putting off since the wedding two weeks ago.

The doorbell rings, and I hear the familiar footsteps of Roberto, my oldest son, followed by the hurried heels of Patricia, my daughter-in-law. Carmen gently squeezes my hand from the couch.

“Dad, we need to talk,” Roberto says without even saying hello, his face as tense as a guitar string.

“Good morning, Roberto. Patricia. Please sit down.”

Patricia crosses her arms and remains standing. Roberto sits on the edge of the chair, as if ready to run away.

“This is crazy, Dad.” A woman forty years your junior, who’s been working here barely a year. Don’t you see what’s going on?

Carmen lets go of my hand and stands up.

“Maybe I should let them talk alone…”

“No,” I say firmly. “You’re my wife. You’re staying.”

Roberto snorts.

“Wife! Dad, she’s manipulating you. First she gained your trust by taking care of you after the stroke, and now… don’t you see she’s only after your money?”

I feel my blood boiling, but I keep my voice calm.

“Roberto, son, how long has it been since your mother died?”

“Four years, but…”

“Four years, three months, and twelve days,” I interrupt. “And in all that time, how many times did they come to visit me? How many times did they stay more than half an hour?”

Patricia finally speaks, with that high-pitched voice that has always grated on my nerves.

“You can’t compare that. We have our lives, jobs, the children…”

“And I had my loneliness,” I say, staring at them. “Until Carmen arrived.”

I turn to my wife, whose eyes are moist but her chin is high.

“Carmen, tell them how this started.”

She takes a deep breath.

“At first, it was just work. Her dad needed help with his medication, physical therapy, meals. But then… then we started talking.” He told me stories about when he was young, about his work in the factory, about how he met his first wife. I told him about my town in Michoacán, about my children who live in the United States.

“Exactly!” Roberto chirps. “He told you he had children, that he needed money to send them…”

Carmen blushes, but doesn’t lower her gaze.

“Yes, I have two children. They work in a packing plant in California. I send them what I can, like any mother. But I never asked their father for anything extra. Never.”

I get up slowly, leaning on my cane.

“Roberto, Patricia, do you know the saddest thing about getting old? It’s not your body deteriorating, it’s not the illnesses. It’s the invisibility. You become a burden, a problem to be solved. Until Carmen showed up.”

Patricia rolls her eyes.

“Please, Dad. You’re very vulnerable now.” She knows exactly what to say to you to…

“For what?” I interrupt, raising my voice. “To make me feel alive again? To laugh at my bad jokes? To stay up with me when I have nightmares? To teach me how to use the phone to video call my grandchildren who never answer?”

Silence spreads through the room. Roberto rubs his face with his hands.

“Dad, we… we love you. But this is too fast. You barely know her.”

“I know her better than you know me,” I say, and I can see how the truth hurts them. “Carmen knows I like bitter coffee, that I hate soap operas but watch the news religiously at eight. She knows I miss driving, that I’m afraid of dying alone. Did you know that?”

Carmen comes over and takes my arm.

“Mr. Roberto, Mrs. Patricia, I understand your concern.” If my forty-year-old daughter married an eighty-year-old man, I’d be worried too. But her dad and I… we look out for each other.

“Very convenient,” Patricia murmurs.

“You know what?” I say, heading toward the window. “You’re right about one thing. This could be a mistake. Carmen could be cheating on me. She could be widowed very soon and inherit everything they’re so worried about.”

I turn to look at them.

“But it could also be real. It could be that two lonely people found each other and decided to face the rest of their lives together. And if I’m wrong, if it turns out I’m being manipulated by a woman who makes me happy every day… well, I’ve made worse mistakes.”

Roberto stands up.

“Dad, we’re going to challenge this marriage. We can’t allow…”

“No,” I say with a firmness I haven’t felt in years. “They can’t. I’m eighty, not eight.” My faculties are intact, my doctor can confirm that. And if you want to fight me in court, go ahead. But know that you’ll be fighting your father for the right to be happy in his later years.

Patricia approaches Roberto.

“Let’s go. You’re being unreasonable.”

As they walk toward the door, Roberto stops.

“What if you regret it, Dad?”

I look at him with the smile I used to wear when I was a child and afraid of the dark.

“Son, at eighty, you regret the things you didn’t do more than the ones you did.”

After they leave, Carmen and I remain silent. She makes tea and sits next to me.

“Do you think they’re right?” she asks in a small voice. “Do you think this is a mistake?”

I take her hand, wrinkled from work but soft as it caresses my face.

“Carmen, do you love me?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

“Would you love me if I were poor?”

“Yes.”

“Would you stay with me if I got sicker?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t care what anyone thinks. Including my children.”

We stay like that, holding hands, watching the sunset through the window. I don’t know how much time we have left together, whether it will be a year, five years, or just a few months. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of the answer.

Love, I’ve discovered, doesn’t end when you turn eighty. It only becomes more precious because you know it’s limited. And if that’s being manipulated, then manipulate me some more.