**Wednesday, 15th June**
Today marked my daughter Emily’s wedding—a small gathering of about 35, mostly the groom’s relatives and friends.
Emily looked every bit the radiant bride, as all brides do. For me, her early marriage at nineteen came as a surprise. Like any mother of a dutiful girl, I’d hoped she’d finish university first, then think of settling down. But life had other plans. She was only in her second year, and her fiancé, William, was in his final term. They were adamant about marrying immediately. William believed anything less than marriage was trivial—his girl deserved to be his wife properly and without delay.
My ex-husband, Emily’s father, didn’t bother showing up, though he’d been invited. Still, he sent a sum of money as a gift, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. It’s been five years since he left us, and aside from the occasional child support wired through his payroll, he’s made no effort to stay in her life.
The reception was in full swing. Everything was lovely—the toastmaster knew his craft. But one guest unsettled me—one of William’s distant relatives, I think. His gaze never left me. Wherever I stood in that hall, I felt his eyes boring into me. It was unnerving. Who did this boy think he was, staring at me so boldly?
Then came the waltz—a rare choice for modern weddings, and one few could dance well. I’ve always loved the waltz, so despite my earlier irritation, when he asked, I accepted. And he danced divinely. We were the finest pair on the floor. Truth be told, I looked my best tonight—a sleek emerald dress hugging my figure, tousled hair just the right side of chic, my eyes bright. One might’ve mistaken me for the bride’s sister, not her mother.
*Where did you learn to dance like that?* I asked as he escorted me back.
*I trained in ballroom for years,* he grinned. *And I know brilliance when I see it. You were the best here tonight.*
His name was Oliver. Every dance after that, he claimed. He didn’t let me slip away, always close enough to seize the next chance. The champagne left me giddy—light, reckless, almost young again. *Let them stare,* I thought. *When will I dance like this, if not now?*
After the wedding, Emily moved in with William. They’re renting for now. My week-long leave ended, and I returned to my job at the council offices. Imagine my shock when Oliver turned up outside after work, flowers in hand.
*What are you doing here?* I hissed. *The whole office will gossip—asking what schoolboy’s taken a fancy to me!*
*I graduated last year,* he said, offended. *I finish an hour earlier, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Got your details from Emily. Besides, I’m twenty-five—hardly a child.*
*And I’m forty. Feel the difference?* I snapped. *Don’t waste your time chasing me. Look around—plenty of girls your age.* I marched to the bus stop.
*Forty? Impossible!* He kept pace. *But even if it’s true—so what? I’ll love you at any age. No one can stop me, not even you. From the moment I saw you at the wedding, I was lost.*
He met me every day after that. Rode the bus to my stop, then back to his own. Never pushed, never demanded—just perfect courtesy.
I won’t lie. His attention flattered me. But fifteen years? I couldn’t ruin his life. He ought to find a younger woman.
Yet, despite my resistance, something softened. Oliver proved himself—steady, kind, steadfast. When pneumonia laid me low, he nursed me back to health. That was when I knew his love wasn’t fleeting.
What woman could resist such devotion?
He proposed. Emily and William urged me to say yes. I refused, certain he’d leave me one day.
What changed? An unexpected pregnancy. I nearly ended it—what business had I with a child when grandchildren loomed? And if Oliver abandoned me, I’d be left raising the baby alone.
Yet he shattered every doubt. He and his parents swore that even if we parted, they’d help raise our child.
We married quietly at home—my condition too obvious by then.
Our son, Henry, is now twenty. Oliver and I are still together. We share interests, understand each other without words. We’re happy.
But one fear lingers. I’m sixty now—he’s just forty-five. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve stolen his life.
And yet—he calls himself the luckiest man alive.
