My name is Minh, I am 61 years old. My first wife died 8 years ago due to a serious illness. All these years, I have lived alone. My children are all married, they come by every month to give me money, buy medicine, then quickly leave.

I don’t blame my children. They’re busy, I understand. But on rainy nights, lying there listening to the rain on the tin roof, I feel terribly small and lonely.

Last year, I went on Facebook and accidentally found Lien – my first love from high school. I really liked Lien back then. Her hair was shoulder-length, her eyes were jet-black, and she had a bright smile. But when I was still worrying about my university entrance exam, her family married her off to the South to a man 10 years older than her.

We lost contact after that. When we met again forty years later, she was a widow, her husband had passed away five years ago, living with her youngest son, but he worked far away and rarely came home.

At first, we just texted to ask how she was. Then called. Then made coffee appointments. Then, for some reason, every few days, I would drive over to visit her, bringing some fruit, a box of cookies, and some bone and joint supplements.

One time, I joked: “Or maybe… these two old people should get married to relieve the loneliness?”

Unexpectedly, her eyes were red. I frantically explained, then she laughed and nodded slightly.

So, at 61, I remarried my first love.

On the wedding day, I wore a dark brown brocade dress, she wore a white silk dress, her hair was simply tied up, with a tiny pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to congratulate her. Everyone said: “You look like you were young again.”

I also felt young. That night, we finished cleaning up the dishes at nearly 10 o’clock. I made her a cup of hot milk, then heavily closed the door and turned off the porch light.

The wedding night – the night that all my old age I thought would never come again – finally arrived.

When I took off her shirt, I was startled. Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered with dark, old scars. I stood still, my heart aching.

She quickly pulled the blanket to cover herself, her eyes filled with fear. I asked tremblingly: “Why… why is this happening, Lien?”

She turned away, her voice choked: “In the past, he was often angry… scolding, difficult… I didn’t dare tell anyone…”

I sat down on the bed, unable to hold back my tears. I felt sorry for her, so sorry that my heart ached. It turned out that for decades, she had lived in fear, in humiliation, not daring to share with anyone. I gently held her hand, placed it on my chest:

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It’s okay… From now on, no one will make you sad anymore. No one has the right to hurt you anymore… Except me, but I only make you happy.

She burst into tears. Her sobs were choked, small but trembling. I pulled her into my arms and hugged her tightly. Her back was thin, her bones protruding, but this small woman had only known patience all her life.

Our wedding night was not like that of other young couples. We just lay next to each other, listening to the crickets chirping outside, listening to the wind rustling through the leaves. I stroked her hair, kissed her forehead. She stroked my cheek, and whispered: “Thank you. Thank you for letting me know that there are still people in this world who love me.”

I smiled. At 61, I realized that happiness sometimes isn’t about money, or the passionate days of youth. It’s about having a hand to hold when you’re old, a shoulder to lean on, and someone willing to sit next to you all night just to listen to your heartbeats.

Tomorrow will come. I don’t know how long I have left. But one thing is for sure: with the remaining days of your life, I will make it up to you, I will love you, I will cherish you, so that you will no longer fear anything.

Because for me, tonight’s wedding night is the greatest gift that life has given back, after half a century of missing, missing and waiting.