Cynthia was seeing her daughter off to marriage. There were about thirty-five guests, mostly relatives and friends of the groom.
Her daughter, Emily, was as radiant as all brides are. For Cynthia, this early wedding at nineteen came as a surprise. Like all mothers of well-behaved girls, she had hoped Emily would finish university first—but things turned out as they did. Emily was in her second year, her fiancé, Oliver, in his final term. They had decided to marry, and that was that. To Oliver, living unwed seemed trivial—his girl deserved to be his wife, now and forever!
Cynthia’s ex-husband, Emily’s father, had been invited but didn’t attend. He did send a sum of money, though—small thanks for that. Five years had passed since he left the family, and he’d never pushed for closeness, settling instead for child support through payroll.
The wedding was in full swing. Everything was lovely—the toast, the food, the music. But one guest unsettled Cynthia—some distant cousin of Oliver’s, perhaps—whose eyes never left her. Wherever she stood, she felt his gaze boring into her. It irritated her. Who did this boy think he was, staring so boldly? Then came a waltz, rare at modern weddings and rarer still among those who could dance it properly.
Cynthia adored waltzing, so despite her earlier annoyance, she accepted when that very same young man approached her. He danced divinely. They became the centrepiece of the floor, the most elegant pair there. Cynthia had always looked youthful, but tonight, she could’ve passed for the bride’s sister, not her mother. Her emerald gown flowed over her slender frame, her casually stylish updo and sparkling eyes making her utterly captivating.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” she asked as he escorted her back afterward.
“Years of ballroom training,” he replied with a smile. “And I’ve a sharp eye—I knew at once no one here could match you.”
From then on, Daniel—they’d exchanged names—danced only with Cynthia, never straying far lest he miss a chance to ask for the next. The champagne and the thrill of feeling young again left her giddy.
*Why not? He’s young, but when will I get to dance like this again?* she thought.
After the wedding, Emily moved in with Oliver, renting a flat for now. Cynthia’s week off ended, and she returned to her job at the social services office. She was stunned when, one evening, Daniel stood outside waiting, flowers in hand.
“What are you doing here—and with those? My colleagues will laugh themselves silly tomorrow, asking which school my suitor attends!” she snapped.
“I’ve just graduated and started work,” he said, affronted. “I finish an hour earlier, and I *burned* to see you. Got your details from Emily. And I don’t look *that* young—I’m twenty-five, you know.”
“Well, I’m forty, in case you missed the maths. Look around—plenty of pretty girls your age. Don’t waste your time on me,” she said, striding toward the bus stop.
“Forty? Impossible! But even if you were, so what? I’ll love you at any age, and no one—not even you—can stop me. I believe in love at first sight now. The moment I saw you at the wedding, I was lost,” he rushed out, following stubbornly.
Daniel began meeting her daily, riding the bus to her doorstep before heading back alone. He asked nothing of her, only courted her with old-fashioned charm, and gradually, despite herself, Cynthia softened. It flattered her, yes—but the age gap loomed large. She didn’t want to ruin his life; he ought to find a young woman.
Yet no matter how she pushed him away, their bond deepened. When Cynthia fell ill with pneumonia, Daniel nursed her back to health. His tenderness and steadfastness wore down her resistance—how could any woman remain unmoved?
He proposed. Emily and Oliver urged her to accept. Cynthia refused, certain he’d leave her someday. She might’ve kept doubting had she not gotten pregnant—an accident she meant to end. A *child*? She was nearly a grandmother! Daniel would surely abandon her, leaving her to raise it alone.
But he upended every fear. He and his parents vowed that, even if they parted, they’d help raise the child.
Cynthia and Daniel married quietly at home, her condition by then unmistakable. Now their son, James, is twenty. They’re still together, sharing interests, understanding each other effortlessly—truly happy.
Just one shadow remains. At sixty, with Daniel only forty-five, Cynthia sometimes torments herself: *Did I steal his youth?*
He, meanwhile, counts himself the luckiest man alive.
Some things—like love—defy logic. Age is but a number; devotion is timeless.
