At 61, I remarried my first love. On our wedding night, as I removed my traditional bride’s dress, I was surprised and pained to see…

And so, at 61, I remarried my first love.

Our wedding was simple. I wore a navy suit, she wore ivory silk. Friends whispered that we looked like teenagers again. For the first time in years, my chest felt alive.

That night, after the guests left, I poured two glasses of wine and led her to the bedroom. Our wedding night. A gift I thought age had stolen from me.

When I helped her slip off her dress, I noticed something odd. A scar near her collarbone. Then another, along her wrist. I frowned—not because of the scars, but because of the way she flinched when I touched them.

“Anna,” I said softly, “did he hurt you?”