I’ll never forget that night in my grandmother’s attic. It was the kind of late where the house feels half-asleep, and every creak and whisper feels sacred. I was surrounded by dusty boxes, yellowed photographs, brittle letters, and stacks of family Bibles. I wasn’t looking for answers — just a distraction from the questions I couldn’t stop asking. Questions about a love that scared everyone else: I’d fallen for someone fifteen years older than me.
Friends called it foolish. Family shook their heads. “Different life stages,” they warned. “One of you will grow old faster.” I smiled politely, but inside, I was scared they might be right. Still, every moment with him felt quiet, steady, and real — the kind of love that makes the world pause.
That night, I found a Bible I’d never seen before. Its leather cracked, gold lettering faded. I opened it almost by accident, letting the pages flutter until they landed on the Song of Solomon. And there it was: “Love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave.”
I read slowly. The Bible spoke endlessly about love — loyalty, kindness, patience, sacrifice — but never once mentioned age. It told stories of couples separated by decades who stood side by side: Ruth and Boaz, Abraham and Sarah. Love wasn’t about youth or birthdays. It was about trust, respect, and showing up for each other.
I sat in the half-light, letting it sink in. Maybe I’d been asking the wrong question. It wasn’t about whether age mattered — it was about whether love did.
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