A few months later, problems began with his son.
At first, the comments were subtle.
Questions about the house.
The bank accounts.
The inheritance.
Then one afternoon, during lunch, he finally said it directly.
—I just hope she didn’t marry you because she’s afraid of ending up alone and broke.
The room went completely silent.
I felt my face burn with humiliation.
Manuel slowly put down his fork.
—Leave the table.
His son laughed nervously.
—I’m just being realistic.
—I said leave the table.
I had never seen Manuel raise his voice before.
His son stood up angrily.
—You think this woman loves you? At your age?
Manuel suddenly slammed his hand against the table.
—At my age, son, I finally learned the difference between people who stay for money… and people who stay out of love.
His son stared at him in shock.
Then he looked at me.
And for the first time, I didn’t lower my eyes in shame.
Because after sixty years of life…
I was tired of apologizing for wanting happiness.
His son left furious.
The door slammed so hard the picture frames shook.
That night, I told Manuel maybe I should move back to my old house.
—to avoid problems.
He looked at me as if I had stabbed him.
—Don’t say that again.
—But your family—
—You are my family.
My eyes filled with tears.
Manuel held my hand carefully.
—I wasted too many years letting life decide things for me. I won’t do that again.
Then he smiled softly.
And suddenly, for a brief moment, I could still see the twenty-year-old boy I once loved.
Months passed.
Slowly, our life found a rhythm.
Peaceful mornings.
Medicine schedules on the refrigerator.
Coffee on the patio.
Afternoon naps while the television played old movies neither of us actually watched.
Sometimes we talked about the years we lost.
The children we might have had together.
The trips we never took.
The tiny apartment we once dreamed of renting when we were young.
And yes…
Sometimes sadness still appeared.
Because love after sixty is different.
It carries memory.
Regret.
Fear.
