At 65, I Remarried My First Love — But On Our Wedding Night, What I Found Broke My Heart (2 of 4)

“Do you remember me?” it read.

I stared at the screen like I was seeing a ghost.

Her name was Emily. Still was.

We started talking again. Cautious at first, but then came the long phone calls, the laughter, the memories. And then, the confession: she was widowed now. So was I.

A few months later, we met for coffee. One look in her eyes and it all rushed back—the way she laughed with her whole face, the tiny scar on her cheek from a teenage bike crash, the perfume she still wore after all these years.

At our age, you don’t waste time. By fall, I asked her to marry me.

We had a small ceremony in my daughter’s backyard. Just a few friends, our grown kids, and some nervous laughter about “second chances.” I hadn’t felt that kind of joy since the day my son was born.

Then came the wedding night.

We stayed at a little inn outside of town—nothing fancy, but quiet and warm. We were both nervous, joking about how our backs might give out before anything else did.

But when I unzipped her dress, something caught in my throat.

There were scars.