My name is Robert, and I’m 61. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness, leaving me in a house far too quiet. My kids are grown, married, and busy. They stop by once a month with money and medicine, then rush off again. I understand… but on rainy nights, the sound on the roof makes the loneliness feel heavier.
Last year, scrolling through Facebook, I stumbled on Emily — my high school sweetheart. Back then, she had flowing hair, deep brown eyes, and a smile that lit up the room. We drifted apart when her family married her off to a man much older. Forty years later, she was widowed, her grown son living far away.
It started with casual messages, then phone calls, then coffee meetups. Before long, I was visiting her with fruit, cookies, and vitamins. Half-joking one day, I asked if we should get married. To my surprise, she teared up and said yes.
We wed simply, surrounded by friends. That night, I saw the scars on her back — marks from years of abuse she had never spoken about. My heart broke.
I promised her no one would ever hurt her again — except from loving her too much.
At 61, I learned happiness isn’t youth or wealth. It’s finding someone’s hand to hold… and never letting go.
