I was 72 when I got married again, and if anyone had told me that a year earlier, I would have laughed.
My first husband, Daniel, had been the love of my life. We were married for 35 years before illness took him from me, and after he died, the world became quieter in the cruelest way. My house felt too large. My evenings too long. The only place I still felt some kind of peace was church.
