My name is Don Ernesto, and I’m 61 years old.
My first wife died eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I’ve lived quietly and alone.
My children are now married and have their own lives. Once a month, they visit me, bring some money and my medicine, and then leave immediately. I don’t blame them; I understand that everyone has their own life.
But on rainy nights, when I hear the drops falling on the tin roof, I feel tiny… and terribly alone.
Last year, while browsing Facebook, I found Lucía, my first great love from high school. Back then, I was completely in love with her: her long, flowing hair, her deep-set black eyes, and that smile that could light up the entire classroom.
Just as I was preparing for the university entrance exams, her family arranged for her to marry a man from southern Mexico, ten years her senior. After that, we lost touch.
Forty years later, we met again. She was also a widow: her husband had died five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, who worked in another city and visited her infrequently.
At first we just greeted each other. Then we started calling each other. Then came shared coffees. And without realizing it, every few days I would take my motorcycle to see her, carrying a basket of fruit, bread, and her joint pills.
One day, half joking, half serious, I said to her:
„What if these two old people got married? Maybe that way the loneliness would disappear.”
To my surprise, her eyes filled with tears. I got nervous and tried to explain that it was just a joke, but she smiled and nodded gently.
So, at 61, I married again… to my first love.
On the wedding day, I wore a dark wine-colored guayabera. She wore a simple cream silk scarf and a long skirt. Her hair was pinned back with a small pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate with us. Everyone commented, „You look like you just fell in love.” And, to be honest, I felt young again.
That night, after clearing the last plate of the party, it was almost 10:00. I made her a glass of warm milk, went outside to close the door, and turn off the porch lights. Our wedding night—something I never thought I’d experience again—had finally arrived.
As I gently began to unbutton her blouse, I stopped. Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered in dark marks: old scars that told a story of pain. I froze, my heart sinking.
She covered herself with the blanket, her eyes wide with fear. In a trembling voice, I asked,
„Lucia… what happened to you?”
She barely whispered,
„She was… she had a very bad temper. She screamed… she hit me… I never told anyone…”
I sat down beside her, feeling the tears well up. All those years I had lived in silence, in fear and shame, unable to tell anyone. I took her hand and placed it gently on my chest.
„It’s over. From today on, no one will hurt you again. No one has the right to make you suffer… except me, but only because I love you so much.”
She burst into silent, trembling tears. I held her tightly. Her back was fragile, her bones prominent… this small woman had endured a lifetime of pain in silence.
Our wedding night wasn’t like that of young people. We stayed together, listening to the crickets in the yard, the wind in the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She brushed my cheek and whispered,
„Thank you. Thank you for showing me there’s still someone in the world who cares about me.”
I smiled. At 61, I finally understood: happiness isn’t found in money or the wild passions of youth. Happiness is a hand that squeezes you, a shoulder to lean on, someone who stays by your side all night—just to feel your heartbeat.
Morning will come. Who knows how many days I still have left?
But I know one thing for sure: for the rest of her life, I will make up for everything she’s lost. I will watch over her and protect her, so she’ll never be afraid again.
This wedding night—after half a century of desires, missed opportunities, and waiting—is the greatest gift life could give me.