Nearly nine years ago, I stood in a wedding dress, smiling for a picture I never thought I’d have. For most of my life, I assumed marriage would happen in my twenties. I imagined a house full of children, a busy, happy home. But life took me down different roads. The years passed, and those dreams seemed to drift further and further away.
By the time I was 49, marriage felt like something that belonged to other people’s stories, not mine. At that point, I was living out of my car and working at the library, just trying to piece life together one day at a time.
And then, everything changed with a simple introduction.
My friend Toi, a kind-hearted librarian, told me about a man named Richard who had a cottage for rent. It was tucked away deep in the Davis Mountains resort, nine long miles of dirt road leading to a quiet, hidden place. It didn’t sound glamorous, but to me, it was a chance at stability. I went.
Richard welcomed me, and little by little, something grew between us. We went on long walks down those dirt roads. He cooked meals that filled the little cottage with warmth. We watched TV together in the evenings. I did my laundry at the main house. There was nothing fancy about it, but there was comfort, laughter, and the kind of companionship that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
Four months later, Richard asked if we could date. Three weeks after that, we stood together and said our vows. It happened so quickly, and yet, it felt like it had been waiting all along.
Looking back at that wedding picture now, I see more than a smile. I see a reminder that love doesn’t run on our schedule. It doesn’t always arrive when or how we planned. Sometimes, it shows up at 49 years old, in the middle of the mountains, after a lifetime of thinking it had passed you by.
And when it does, it feels like the most beautiful surprise of all.
