At 61, I remarried my first love: On the wedding night, as soon as I took off my wife’s shirt, I was suddenly startled and heartbroken when I saw

My name is Minh, I am 61 years old. My first wife died 8 years ago due to a serious illness. For all those years, I lived alone. My children all got married, came by every month to give me money, buy medicine, then hurriedly left.

I don’t blame my children. They are busy, I understand. But on rainy nights, lying listening to the rain on the tin roof, I feel terribly small and lonely.

Last year, I went on Facebook and accidentally found Lien – my first love in high school. I really liked Lien back then. She had shoulder-length hair, jet-black eyes, and a bright smile. But when I was still worrying about my university entrance exam, her family married her off to the South to a man 10 years older than her.

We lost contact after that. When we met again forty years later, she was a widow, her husband had passed away for five years, living with her youngest son, but he worked far away and rarely came home.

At first, we just texted to ask how she was doing. Then called. Then made coffee appointments. Then, for some reason, every few days, I would drive over to visit her, bringing some fruit, a box of cookies, and some bone and joint supplements.

One time, I joked:

– Or… should these two old people get married to relieve loneliness?

Unexpectedly, her eyes were red. I was flustered to explain, but she laughed and nodded slightly.

So, at 61, I remarried my first love.

On the wedding day, I wore a dark brown brocade ao dai, she wore a white silk ao dai, her hair was simply tied up, with a tiny pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to congratulate her. Everyone said: “You look like you were young again.”

I also felt young. That night, when we finished cleaning up the table, it was almost 10 o’clock. I made her a cup of hot milk, then heavily closed the door and turned off the porch light.

The wedding night – the night that all my old age I thought would never come again – finally arrived.

As I took off her shirt, I was startled. Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered with dark, old marks. I stood still, my heart aching.

She quickly pulled the blanket to cover herself, her eyes filled with fear. I asked tremblingly:

– Why… why is this happening, Lien?
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She turned away, her voice choked:

– In the past, he was often angry… scolding, difficult… I didn’t dare tell anyone…

I sat down on the bed, unable to hold back my tears. I felt sorry for her, so sorry that my heart ached. It turned out that for decades, she had lived in fear, in humiliation, not daring to share with anyone. I gently held her hand, placed it on my chest:

– It’s okay… From now on, no one will make you sad anymore. No one has the right to hurt you anymore… Except me, but I only make you happy.

She burst into tears. Her cry was choked, small but trembling. I pulled her into my arms and hugged her tightly. Her back was thin, her bones protruding, but this little woman had only known patience all her life.

Our wedding night was not like that of a young couple. We just lay next to each other, listening to the crickets chirping in the yard, listening to the wind rustling through the leaves. I stroked her hair, gently kissed her forehead. She also stroked my cheek, whispering:

– Thank you. Thank you for letting me know that there are still people in this world who love me.

I smiled. At 61, I realized that happiness sometimes isn’t about money, or the passionate days of youth. It’s about having a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and someone willing to sit next to you all night just to listen to your heartbeat.
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Tomorrow will come. I don’t know how long I will live. But one thing is certain: for the rest of your life, I will make it up to you, I will love you, I will cherish you, so that you will no longer be afraid of anything.

Because for me, tonight’s wedding night is the greatest gift that life has given back, after half a century of missing, missing and waiting.