The grand hall was softly lit as Eleanor prepared to give away her daughter in marriage. Only about thirty-five guests had gathered—mostly relatives and friends of the groom.
Lydia, the bride, was radiant, as all brides are. For Eleanor, her daughter’s sudden decision to marry at just nineteen had come as a shock. Like any mother of a dutiful, bright girl, she had hoped Lydia would finish university first. But life had other plans. Lydia was only in her second year, while her groom, William, was in his final term. They had made up their minds—no discussion. William believed love without marriage was meaningless—his Lydia deserved to be his wife, bound to him from the start.
Eleanor’s ex-husband, Lydia’s father, hadn’t come, though he’d been invited. At least he’d sent a cheque—small mercies. He’d left the family five years ago, never making an effort to stay close, content to send child support through his accountant.
The reception was in full swing, the toastmaster keeping spirits high. Yet something unsettled Eleanor—one of the groom’s distant relatives, a man whose gaze never left her. No matter where she stood, his eyes followed, piercing. It unnerved her. How dare this boy stare so brazenly?
Then the waltz began—a rare choice for modern weddings, one few knew how to dance. Eleanor had always loved it and, despite her earlier irritation, found herself stepping into the arms of the very man who’d unnerved her. He moved gracefully, leading her into the centre of the room as the most striking pair there. She was stunning—her emerald gown hugging her figure, her carelessly chic updo, the spark in her eyes. She could’ve passed for Lydia’s sister.
*”Where did you learn to dance like this?”* she asked as he escorted her off the floor.
*”Years of ballroom,”* he replied, smiling. *”And I knew the moment I saw you—no one else here could match you.”*
Oliver—that was his name—didn’t dance with anyone else. He stayed close, ensuring he was there for every song. The champagne, the lightness in her chest—it all made Eleanor giddy. *”What does it matter if he’s young? When will I ever get to dance like this again?”* she thought.
After the wedding, Lydia moved in with William, renting a flat while Eleanor returned to work at the social services office. She was stunned when, one evening, she stepped outside to find Oliver waiting—with flowers.
*”What are you doing here? And with those? My colleagues will laugh themselves silly—they’ll ask what sixth-form boy has a crush on me.”*
*”I’ve graduated. My shift ends early, and I *had* to see you. Lydia gave me your details. And I’m twenty-five, by the way—hardly a boy.”*
*”I’m forty. Feel the difference? Walk away, Oliver. Don’t waste your time. There are dozens of pretty girls your age—pick one.”* She turned sharply toward the bus stop.
*”Oh, please. Forty? You’re joking. And even if you weren’t—so what? I’ll love you at any age, and nothing—not even you—can stop me. Believe me, I know what love at first sight feels like now.”* He kept pace, words tumbling out in his hurry to convince her.
And so it began. Every evening, he rode the bus with her, ensuring she got home before heading back. He asked for nothing, only offering quiet devotion.
She’d be lying if she pretended it didn’t flatter her. But the age gap gnawed at her conscience—he deserved a young woman, a full life. Yet no matter how hard she pushed him away, something shifted between them. He was kind, earnest, unwavering. When she fell ill with pneumonia, he nursed her back to health, proving his love wasn’t fleeting.
How could anyone resist such devotion? Least of all her.
He proposed. Lydia and William urged her to say yes. Still, Eleanor hesitated, certain he’d leave her one day.
Her doubts might have lingered—if not for the pregnancy. At first, she wanted to end it. A baby? She was nearly a grandmother herself. And surely Oliver would abandon her, leaving her to raise a child alone.
But he shattered every expectation. He—and even his parents—vowed to stand by her, regardless of what happened.
They married quietly at home, surrounded by family, Eleanor’s condition impossible to hide by then.
Now their son, Thomas, is twenty.
Eleanor and Oliver remain side by side, entwined in shared passions, understanding each other with just a glance. By all accounts, they are happy.
But there’s one shadow. Eleanor is sixty now; Oliver, forty-five. She still frets—has she ruined his life?
He, however, has never been happier.
