and devastated to see what I discovered.

My name is Rajiv, and I’m 61 years old. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I’ve lived quietly, alone. All my children are married and settled. Once a month, they come to drop off some money and medicine, and then they leave quickly. I don’t blame them. They have their own lives, and I understand.

But on rainy nights, when I hear the sound of raindrops hitting the tin roof, I feel unbearably small and alone.

Last year, while scrolling through Facebook, I came across Meena—my first love from high school. Back then, I loved her deeply. Her long, wavy hair, her intense black eyes, and a smile so bright it lit up the whole class. But as 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 all contact. Forty years later, we met again. She was a widow now too—her husband had died five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, but he worked in another city and was rarely home.

At first, we only exchanged greetings. Then we started talking on the phone. Later, we began meeting for coffee. Without realizing it, I started visiting her every few days on my scooter, carrying a small basket with fruit, some sweets, and medicine for my joint pain.

One day, jokingly, I said to him:

—“What if… two old hearts got married? Wouldn’t that end their loneliness?”

To my surprise, her eyes filled with tears. I was confused, trying to explain that it was just a joke… but she smiled gently and nodded.

And so, at 61, I remarried —to my first love.

On the wedding day, I wore a dark brown sherwani. She wore a simple cream-colored silk sari. Her hair was neatly styled and adorned with a small pearl brooch. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. Everyone said, “They look like young lovers again.”

And honestly, I felt young again.

That night, after the party’s aftermath had been cleaned up, it was almost 10 o’clock. I made her a glass of warm milk, closed the front door, and turned off the porch lights.

The wedding night —something I never imagined I would have again in old age— had finally arrived.

When I began to gently remove her blouse, I remained motionless.

Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered in deep scars—old marks, scattered like a sad map across her skin. I stood there, heartbroken.

She quickly covered herself with a blanket, her eyes wide with fear. In a trembling voice, I asked her:

—“Meena… what happened to you?”

She turned around, her voice choked with emotion:

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

I sat beside her, my heart heavy, tears welling in my eyes. My soul ached for her. I had kept silent for decades—out of fear and shame—telling no one. I took her hand and gently placed it on my chest.

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

She burst into tears—soft, trembling sobs that filled the room. I hugged her. Her back was fragile, her bones slightly protruding—a small woman who had endured a lifetime of silence and pain.

Our wedding night wasn’t like that of a young couple. We just lay side by side, listening to the crickets in the yard and the whisper of the wind 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 there is still someone in this world who cares about me.”

I smiled. At 61, I finally understood: happiness isn’t money, nor the overflowing passion of youth. It’s a hand you can hold, a shoulder you can lean on, and someone who will sit with you all night, just to listen to your heartbeat.

Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But of one thing I am certain: for the rest of her life, I will take care of her. I will cherish her. I will protect her, so that she will never have to be afraid again.

Because for me, that wedding night — after half a century of longing, missed opportunities and waiting — was the greatest gift that life could give me.