Across my abdomen and left side were jagged, lumpy, and discolored scars. They weren’t just marks of age; they were the remnants of a life-or-death surgery I underwent five years ago while battling a severe illness, alongside deep stretch marks from three difficult pregnancies.
My skin was no longer the smooth, vibrant canvas Manuel remembered from our youth. It was wrinkled, uneven, and marked by the brutal history of my survival.
A wave of insecurity crashed over me. I scrambled to grab the nearby robe to cover myself, my voice trembling. — “I’m sorry, Manuel… I forgot that… I’m not what I used to be. I should have told you before.”
Tears began to blur my vision. I felt humiliated. At sixty, I thought I was strong enough to ignore the world’s judgment, but in front of the man I loved, I felt more fragile than ever. I was terrified of his disappointment. I feared that his beautiful, frozen memory of our “first love” would be shattered by the harsh reality of my withered body.
But Manuel didn’t leave. He stood still for a long moment, then slowly walked toward me. He didn’t look at my face; instead, he looked at my hands, which were clutching the robe so hard my knuckles were white.
