Hello, I’m Brian, 61. My first wife died eight years ago after a long illness.

I have lived alone in quiet since. My kids are married and established. They quickly leave after dropping off money and narcotics once a month.

Not their fault. They live alone, which I understand. On rainy afternoons, laying there listening to the tin roof drips, I feel very little and alone.

While browsing Facebook last year, I found Alice, my high school crush. I loved her then. Her beautiful, flowing hair, deep black eyes, and cheerful grin could brighten up the classroom. But while I was studying for my university entrance exams, her family arranged for her to marry a southern Indian guy 10 years her senior.

Communication stopped after that. We reunited after 40 years. Her husband died five years before, leaving her a widow. Although her younger son worked in another city and visited her seldom, she lived with him.

We started with hello. Then we called. Next followed coffee gatherings. I was secretly riding my scooter to her home every few days with a basket of fruit, candy, and joint pain pills.

On one occasion, I joked, “What if we two old souls get married?” Wouldn’t that reduce loneliness?

I was amazed by her crimson eyes. I stammered to say it was a joke, but she nodded and grinned.

Just like that, I remarried my first love at 61.

My wedding sherwani was dark maroon. Her saree was cream silk. She had a little pearl pin in her well arranged hair. Friends and neighbors celebrated. Everyone commented, “You both look like young lovers again.”

Indeed, I felt youthful. I cleaned up the feast about 10 p.m. After giving her warm milk, I locked the front gate and turned out the porch lights.

Our wedding night, which I never thought would happen in my old age, has come.

I froze while removing her blouse.

Like a bad map, her back, shoulders, and arms were stained and scarred. I stood still, heartbroken.

She hastily covered herself with a blanket, terrified. Trembling, I asked:

“Meena…” “What happened?”

As she turned, her voice strangled.

“He used to be volatile.” He would shout and hit me. “I never told anyone…”

Sitting next to her, tears filled my eyes. My heart hurts for her. For decades, she lived in fear and humiliation, never informing anybody. I took her hand and gently covered my heart.

“It’s fine now.” No one will harm you again beginning today. “No one can cause you suffering except me—but only because I love you too much.”

Her mute, trembling tears filled the room.

I clutched her. Her spine was weak and her bones protruded; this little lady had lived in quiet and pain her whole life.

Our wedding night was different from younger couples. We slept next one other listening to the courtyard crickets and tree breeze. I kissed her forehead and brushed her hair. She murmured and touched my cheek:

Thank you. I appreciate your reminder that someone cares about me.”

I grinned. At 61, I discovered that money and youth’s uncontrolled emotions don’t provide pleasure. A hand to grasp, a shoulder to lean on, and someone to sit by your side all night to feel your pulse.

Will come tomorrow. Who knows my remaining days? One thing is certain: I shall compensate her for her loss forever. Will treasure her. I will protect her so she never worries again.

Because this wedding night—after 50 years of desire, missed chances, and waiting—is my greatest gift.