**Diary Entry**
My daughter’s wedding day arrived, and though the guest list was small—just 35 people, mostly relatives and the groom’s friends—it felt intimate and warm.
Charlotte, my girl, looked every bit the radiant bride. I hadn’t expected her to marry so young, at just nineteen. Like any mother with a dutiful daughter, I’d hoped she’d finish university first. But life had other plans. She was only in her second year, and her fiancé, Oliver, was about to graduate. He insisted—no living together without marriage, no half-measures. His girl deserved to be his wife, properly and forever.
My ex-husband, Charlotte’s father, didn’t show up, though he’d been invited. He did send her some money—small consolation. Five years had passed since he left us, and beyond the occasional child support, he’d made no effort to stay in her life.
The reception was lively, the toastmaster knew his craft, but one guest unsettled me—a distant cousin of Oliver’s, perhaps. Wherever I moved, his gaze followed, sharp and relentless. It irked me. Who did this boy think he was, staring at me like that?
Then came the waltz—a rarity at modern weddings, few even know how to dance it properly. I’ve always loved it, so when that same young man asked, I swallowed my irritation and took his hand. He danced like a dream. We were the centre of attention, elegant and effortless. I barely looked like the mother of the bride—more like her sister, truth be told. My emerald-green dress flowed over my frame, my hair stylishly loose, my eyes bright. I felt alive.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” I asked as he escorted me back.
“Years of ballroom,” he replied with a smile. “And I’ve got a sharp eye—I could tell no one here dances better than you.”
For the rest of the evening, Edward—we’d exchanged names—danced only with me, lingering so he wouldn’t miss a single chance. The champagne left me giddy, floating on a cloud of youthful exhilaration. *Why not?* I thought. *Let me enjoy this while I can.*
After the wedding, Charlotte moved in with Oliver, renting a flat while they saved. My week off ended, and I returned to work at the community services office. Imagine my shock when, leaving one evening, I spotted Edward waiting outside—holding flowers.
“What on earth are you doing here? And with *those*? My colleagues will have a field day tomorrow!” I scowled.
“I graduated already. Got a job—my shifts end an hour earlier than yours,” he said, oddly defensive. “Charlotte gave me your details. And for the record, I’m twenty-five. Not that young.”
*”I’m forty,*” I shot back. “That’s the difference. Stop wasting your time. Look around—plenty of pretty girls your age!” I marched toward the bus stop.
He followed, unfazed. “Forty? No way. But even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. I’ll love you at any age, and you can’t stop me. I believe in love at first sight—ever since the wedding, I’ve been lost.”
He met me every evening after that, riding the bus with me before doubling back to his own place. No demands, just impeccable manners and an unshakable persistence.
I won’t pretend his attention didn’t flatter me, but the age gap loomed large. I refused to ruin his life—he deserved someone young. Yet despite my resistance, something shifted. When I fell ill with pneumonia, he cared for me tirelessly, proving himself kind, decent, and utterly serious.
His devotion wore me down. What woman could resist?
He proposed. Charlotte and Oliver urged me to say yes. I refused, convinced he’d leave me eventually.
Doubt might have lingered—until an unexpected pregnancy. I wanted to end it. *A child?* I was nearly a grandmother! And if Edward left, I’d be raising it alone.
But he dismantled every fear. He and his parents vowed support—even if we split, they’d help.
We married quietly at home, just close family—my condition was unmistakable by then.
Now our son, William, is twenty.
Edward and I are still together. Shared interests, unspoken understanding—sometimes just a glance is enough. We are happy.
Yet one shadow remains. I’m sixty now; he’s only forty-five. Sometimes I still wonder—have I stolen his best years?
He insists he’s never been happier.
