I don’t blame them. They have their own lives, and I understand. But on rainy nights, lying there listening to the droplets hitting the tin roof, I feel unbearably small and alone.

Last year, I was scrolling through Facebook when I stumbled across Meena — my first love from high school. I adored her back then. She had long, flowing hair, deep black eyes, and a smile so radiant it could light up the whole classroom. But just as I was preparing for my university entrance exams, her family arranged her marriage to a man in southern India — ten years older than her.

We lost contact after that. Forty years later, we found each other again. She was now a widow — her husband had passed away five years ago. 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 came the coffee meetups. And without realizing it, I found myself riding my scooter to her house every few days, carrying a small basket of fruit, some sweets, and a few joint pain supplements.

One day, half-joking, I said:

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

To my surprise, her eyes turned red. I fumbled, trying to explain it was a joke — but she smiled softly and nodded.

And just like that, at 61, I remarried — to my first love.

On our wedding day, I wore a dark maroon sherwani. She wore a simple cream silk saree. Her hair was neatly tied back, adorned with a tiny pearl pin. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. Everyone said, “You both look like young lovers again.”

And honestly, I felt young. That night, after cleaning up the feast, it was nearly 10 p.m. I made her a warm glass of milk and went about locking the front gate and turning off the porch lights.

Our wedding night — something I never imagined would come again in my old age — had finally arrived.

As I gently removed her blouse, I froze.

Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered in deep discolorations — old scars crisscrossed like a tragic map. I stood still, my heart aching.

She hastily pulled a blanket over herself, her eyes wide in fear. I trembled as I asked:

– “Meena… what happened to you?”

She turned away, her voice choked:

– “Back then… he had a terrible temper. He would yell… hit me… I never told anyone…”

I sat down heavily beside her, tears welling up in my eyes. My heart ached for her. All those decades, she had lived in silence — in fear and shame — never telling a soul. I reached for her hand, gently placing it over my heart.

– “It’s alright now. From today, no one will hurt you again. No one has the right to make you suffer anymore… except me — but only from loving you too much.”

She broke into sobs — quiet, trembling sobs that echoed through the room. I held her close. Her back was fragile, her bones slightly jutting out — this small woman, who had endured a lifetime of silence and suffering.

Our wedding night wasn’t like those of younger couples. We simply lay beside each other, listening to the crickets chirping in the courtyard, 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 youth’s wild passions. It’s having a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and someone who will sit by your side all night, just to feel your heartbeat.

Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But one thing I know for certain: for the rest of her life, I will make up for what she lost. I will cherish her. I will protect her, so she’ll never have to fear anything again.

Because to me, this wedding night — after half a century of longing, of missed chances, of waiting — is the greatest gift life has ever returned to me.