I never thought I’d be getting married again in my late fifties, but life has a funny way of surprising you when you least expect it. After losing my first husband over a decade ago, I’d convinced myself that love like that only comes once. Then I met Peter.
We met at a community gardening project two years ago. He’d shown up late, wearing mismatched gloves and apologizing for spilling soil everywhere. I couldn’t stop laughing—and he couldn’t stop smiling. By the end of that day, we’d planted both a row of lavender and the beginnings of something beautiful.
When he proposed last spring, I was overjoyed. He wanted a small wedding—just family and a few close friends. “Nothing fancy,” he said, “just love, laughter, and good food.”
That sounded perfect to me.
