**Diary Entry**
I never imagined Id write these words, but here I amsixty-one years old, and my heart feels as raw as it did at twenty. My wife, Margaret, passed eight years ago, and since then, my days have been quiet, almost hollow. My children, bless them, visit when they can, but their lives move at a pace I cant match. They bring groceries, leave a few pounds on the table, and hurry off again.
Id grown used to the solitudeor so I thoughtuntil one evening, while mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, a name stopped me cold: *Elizabeth Hartley*.
Elizabethmy first love. The girl I swore Id marry one day. She had hair like golden wheat and a laugh I could still hear after forty-odd years. But life wrenched us apart. Her family moved to York suddenly, and she was married off before I could even say a proper goodbye.
Seeing her photo againsilver threading through her hair but that same warm smilefelt like stepping into a forgotten dream. We started talking, sharing memories over cups of tea, then quiet dinners. The ease between us was instant, as if time had never passed.
And so, at sixty-one, I married my first love.
The ceremony was small. I wore my best tweed jacket; she chose a cream-coloured dress. Friends remarked how youthful we looked, how radiant. For the first time in years, my heart stirred with something like hope.
That night, after the guests had left, I poured us both a glass of sherry and led her to our room. Our wedding nighta joy Id long thought lost to time.
But as I helped her out of her dress, I saw themthin scars near her collarbone, another along her wrist. I paused, not at the marks themselves, but at the way she stiffened under my touch.
Elizabeth, I murmured, did someone hurt you?
She went still. Her eyes dartedfear, shame, hesitationbefore she spoke words that turned my blood to ice.
Thomas my name isnt Elizabeth.
The room seemed to tilt. My pulse hammered in my ears.
What do you mean?
She looked down, trembling.
Elizabeth was my sister.
I stumbled back. My thoughts reeled. The girl I rememberedthe one whose face Id carried in my heart for decadesgone?
She passed, the woman whispered, tears spilling. Years ago. Our parents buried her quietly. But everyone said I looked like hersounded like her. I was always her shadow. When you found me online I couldnt help myself. You thought I was her. And for the first time, someone saw *me* the way they saw Elizabeth. I didnt want to let that go.
The world crumbled beneath me. My first love was a ghost. The woman before meher reflection, wearing Elizabeths life like a borrowed coat.
I wanted to shout, to demand answers, to rage at the deception. But as I watched hershaking, frail, drowning in guiltI didnt see a liar. I saw a woman whod spent her whole life unseen, aching to be loved just once.
Tears blurred my vision. My chest achedfor Elizabeth, for the years stolen, for the cruelty of chance.
Then who are you? I asked, my voice rough.
She lifted her face, shattered.
My name is Catherine. And all I wanted was to know what it felt like to be chosen.
That night, I lay awake beside her, unable to sleep. My heart was splitbetween the ghost of the girl Id loved and the lonely woman whod worn her name.
And I understood then: love in old age isnt always kindness.
Sometimes, its a trialone sharp enough to remind you that even an old heart can still break.
