My name is Rajiv, and I am 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 visit to leave some money and medicines, 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 drops hitting the tin roof, I feel unbearably small and alone.

Last year, while browsing 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 classroom. But while I was preparing for my university entrance exams, her family arranged her marriage to a man from South India—ten years older than her.

After that, we lost all contact. Forty years later, we found each other again. She too was a widow now—her husband had passed away five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, but he worked in another city and was rarely at home.

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

One day, half joking, I said:

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

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

And so, at 61, I remarried—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 tied up and adorned with a small pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. Everyone said, “You look like young lovers again.”

And honestly, I felt young again.

That night, after the party was cleaned up, it was nearly 10 p.m. I warmed a glass of milk for her, closed the front door, and turned off the porch lights.

The wedding night—something I never imagined experiencing again at this age—had finally arrived.

When I began gently unbuttoning her blouse, I froze.

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 pulled a blanket around herself, her eyes wide with fear. In a trembling voice, I asked:

—“Meena… what happened to you?”

She turned to me, her voice choking:

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

I sat beside her with my heart clenched, tears in my eyes. My soul ached for her. She had kept her silence for decades—out of fear and shame—without telling a single person. I took her hand and placed it gently on my chest.

—“It’s all right 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 broke down into tears—soft, trembling sobs that filled the room. I held her. Her back was fragile, her bones slightly prominent—a small woman who had endured a lifetime of silence and pain.

Our wedding night was nothing like that of a young couple. We simply lay side by side, listening to the crickets in the courtyard 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’s still someone in this world who cares about me.”

I smiled. At 61, I finally understood: happiness isn’t money, nor the fiery passion of youth. It’s a hand you can hold, a shoulder you can lean on, and someone who lies awake with you through the night just to listen to the beats of your heart.

Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But one thing is certain: for the rest of her life, I will care for her. Cherish her. Protect her, so she never has to be afraid again.

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