At 61, I Married My First Love — But On Our Wedding Night, I Discovered the Scars That Changed Everything – Page 2

At sixty-one, I married my first love.

I wore a dark maroon sherwani.
She wore a cream silk sari.
Her hair was pinned neatly, a small pearl clip glimmering under the light.

Neighbors came. Old friends cried.
Someone whispered, “They look like young lovers again.”

And I swear, for that one day, I felt young again too.

That night, after the guests left and the music faded, I poured her a glass of warm milk and went to lock the front door.

It was our wedding night — something I thought I’d never have again.

When I came back to the room, she was sitting quietly on the bed.

As I reached to unbutton her blouse, she flinched — and my heart stopped.

Her back was covered in scars.
Deep, discolored marks — like a map of pain carved into her skin.

She pulled the blanket around her instantly, eyes wide with fear.

“Meena…” I whispered, trembling. “What happened to you?”

Her voice cracked.

“He… he had a temper. He used to scream, hit… I never told anyone.”

My knees gave out. I sat beside her, tears burning my eyes.
For years — decades — she had carried this pain in silence.

I took her hand and pressed it to my chest.

“It’s over,” I said softly. “No one will ever hurt you again. No one — except me, maybe, for loving you too much.”

She broke down completely, sobbing into my shoulder.

At 61, I Married My First Love — But On Our Wedding Night, I Discovered the Scars That Changed Everything