I’m 65, and this year, I’m getting married for the second time.
If someone had told me that three years ago, I would’ve smiled sadly and changed the subject.
I was married to my first husband for thirty beautiful years — until illness took him from me. When he passed, I truly believed my heart had closed forever.
Then Henry came along.
Gentle. Thoughtful. Kind in all the quiet ways that matter.
He didn’t try to replace what I lost — he honored it. He saw me. And slowly, he made me believe in joy again.
When he proposed, I cried like a young bride.
We planned a small backyard wedding, simple and intimate. But I still had one dream: a real wedding dress.
So I walked into a bridal salon.
The young consultants sized me up instantly — the looks, the whispers, the barely hidden laughter.
“Are you buying for your granddaughter?”
“Wait… you’re the bride?”
“Seriously, Grandma?”
I chose a dress I loved, but in the fitting room their giggles seeped through the curtain. My eyes burned. I almost walked out.
Then the door chimed.
A tall, elegant woman entered, sent the consultants away, and introduced herself.
“I’m the owner,” she said softly. “And you look radiant. Love has no age limit.”
She helped me find the perfect dress — and then gifted it to me.
As I left, she smiled and said,
“Love always arrives right on time.”
And she was right. 💖
