I was 72 years old when I got married again, and if you had told me that a year before it happened, I would have laughed right in your face.
See, my first husband, Daniel, was the love of my life. We were together for 35 years before he died of an illness.
After Daniel died, the church became the only place where I still felt peace. Not happy, or healed, just a quiet stillness that didn’t suffocate the way my empty home did.
That was where I met Arthur.
I was 72 years old when I got married again.
He was sitting alone after service one Sunday, bent forward with his hands clasped so tightly I could see the strain in his knuckles. I walked over to him.