Zinaida was marrying off her daughter. The gathering was intimate—about thirty-five guests, mostly the groom’s relatives and friends.
Her daughter, Charlotte, was radiant, like all brides. For Zoe, her early marriage at nineteen came as a shock. Like any devoted mother of a well-behaved girl, she had hoped Charlotte would finish university first—then settle down. But life had other plans. Charlotte was in her second year, her fiancé, Oliver, in his final. They insisted on marrying now, no discussion. Oliver believed commitment without vows was trivial—his girl deserved to be his wife, properly and forever.
Zoe’s ex-husband, Charlotte’s father, hadn’t bothered showing up, though he was invited. He did send a cheque, for which she was grudgingly grateful. Five years had passed since he left, and he’d made little effort to stay in his daughter’s life beyond the obligatory child support.
The wedding was in full swing. Everything was perfect—the toastmaster knew his craft. But one guest unsettled Zoe—some distant cousin of Oliver’s, whose gaze never left her. No matter where she stood in the hall, she felt his eyes on her, sharp as a blade. It rankled. How dare this boy stare so boldly?
Then the waltz began, rare at modern weddings—few even knew the steps. Zoe adored it. Despite her earlier irritation, she let him lead her to the floor. He danced like a dream. At the centre of the circle, they were the most striking pair. Zoe, already striking in an emerald gown that flowed over her slender frame, with her effortlessly chic updo and sparkling eyes, could’ve passed for Charlotte’s sister, not her mother.
“Where on earth did you learn to dance like that?” she asked as he escorted her back.
“Years of ballroom. I’ve got a keen eye—knew you’d be the best here,” he answered, grinning.
From then on, Edward—they’d exchanged names—danced with no one but Zoe. He didn’t stray far, eager to claim every song. The champagne and the giddiness of feeling young again left her dizzy. “So what if he’s younger? I’ll dance till I drop—when’s the next chance?” she thought.
After the wedding, Charlotte moved in with Oliver, renting a flat for now. Zoe’s week off ended, and she returned to her job at the council office. She was stunned when, after her shift, she spotted Edward outside—holding flowers.
“What are you doing here? With those? My colleagues will have a field day tomorrow—’What year is your schoolboy beau in?’” she snapped.
“I’ve graduated. I finish an hour earlier, and I had to see you. Got your details from Charlotte,” he said, sounding wounded. “And I don’t look that young. I’m twenty-five, for God’s sake.”
“I’m forty. Feel the difference? Don’t waste your time chasing me. Look around—plenty of pretty girls your age,” Zoe retorted, striding toward the bus stop.
“Forty? No way. Even if you were, so what? I’ll love you at any age, and no one—not even you—can stop me. Believe me, I never believed in love at first sight until that wedding,” he protested, hurrying after her.
Edward began waiting for her daily, riding the bus to her stop before doubling back. He asked for nothing, just stayed impeccably polite.
Zoe couldn’t deny the flattery—but the age gap gnawed at her. She wouldn’t ruin his life; he deserved someone young. Yet no matter how she pushed him away, something shifted. When she fell ill with pneumonia, he nursed her back to health. Only then did she realise his love was real.
His persistence wore her down. What woman could resist?
He proposed. Charlotte and Oliver urged her to say yes. Zoe refused, convinced he’d leave her eventually.
Doubt might’ve lingered—until an unexpected pregnancy she initially wished to end. A baby? She was nearly a grandmother! Surely Edward would bolt, leaving her to raise the child alone.
But he shattered every fear. He and his parents vowed their support, even if they someday parted.
They married quietly at home, with only close family—Zoe’s figure by then leaving little to the imagination.
Now their son, Andrew, is twenty. Zoe and Edward remain together, sharing interests, understanding each other without words—sometimes just a glance. By all accounts, they’re happy.
But one shadow lingers. Zoe is sixty; Edward, just forty-five. She still tortures herself—did she steal his youth?
He insists he’s never been happier.
