My name is Sarah Miller, 40 years old.

My youth gradually faded away in unfinished love affairs – some betrayed me, others saw me as a temporary stop.

Whenever love broke up, my mom looked at me and sighed: “Sarah, maybe it’s time to stop chasing perfection. James next door is a good man. He may walk with a limp, but he has a kind heart.”

Our neighbor James Parker is five years older than me.

He was disabled in his right leg after a car ac:cident at the age of 17.

James lives with his oldmother in a small wooden house in the town of Burlington, Vermont, and works as an electronics and computer repairman.

He is quiet, a bit clumsy, but always smiles gently.

It is rumored that James has liked me for many years, yet he just didn’t dare say it.

I used to think, at 40 years old, what else can I expect?

Maybe, having a gentle person to lean on is better than being lonely.

Therefore, on a rainy and windy autumn afternoon, I nodded in agreement.

No wedding dress, no fancy party – just some close friends and a simple dinner.

I lay still in my new bedroom, listening to the rain falling on the porch roof, my heart filled with confusion.

James limped in, holding a glass of water.

“Here,” he said softly. “Drink this, you must be tired.”

His voice was gentle like the breath of the night wind.

He pulled up the blanket, turned off the light and sat down on the edge of the bed.

The silence was suffocating.

I closed my eyes, my heart pounding, and waited for something between fear and curiosity.

A moment later, he spoke softly, his voice trembling:

“You can sleep, Sarah. I won’t touch you. Not until you’re ready.”

In the darkness, I noticed him lying on his side, his back turned, keeping a great distance – as if he was afraid of hurting me just by touching me.

My heart suddenly softened.

I little expected that the man I only considered “my last choice” would treat me with such respect.

The next morning, I woke up, sunlight streaming through the curtains.

On the table was a breakfast tray: an egg sandwich, a glass of warm milk, and a handwritten note:

“I went to the shop to fix a customer’s TV. Don’t go out if it’s still raining. I’ll be back for lunch.” – James.

I read the note over and over, my eyes stinging.

For the past twenty years, I have cried because men betrayed me.
But that morning, for the first time, I cried… because I was truly loved.

That night, James came home late, smelling of engine oil and welding fumes.

I sat waiting on the sofa, my hands clasped together.

“James,” I called.

“Yes?” he looked up, his eyes confused.

“Come here… sit beside me.”

I looked him straight in the eyes and whispered,

“I don’t want us to be two people sharing a bed. I want us to be husband and wife… for real.”

He stood still, seemingly not believing what he had just heard.

“Sarah… are you sure?”

I nodded, “Yes, I’m sure.”

James immediately reached out and took my hand – a warm, gentle grip, as if the whole world outside had melted away.

His handshake made me believe in love again.

From that day on, I no longer felt lonely.

James was still a limping man, still more silent than talking, but he was the strongest shoulder in my life.

Every morning, I baked bread for him and he made coffee for me.

We never said the word “I love you”, but every little action was filled with love.

Once, as I saw him fixing an old radio for a neighbor, I suddenly realized:

Love doesn’t have to come early, it just has to come to the right person.

And perhaps, in a woman’s life, the most beautiful thing is not marrying someone in her youth, yet finding someone who makes her feel secure – even if it’s late

Ten Years After That Rainy Evening

Time flies like the wind through the maple trees.

It has been ten years since that rainy night when I – Sarah Miller Parker – held the hand of that limping man and started life over.

Now, the small wooden house on the outskirts of Burlington, Vermont, is filled with the golden colors of autumn.

Each morning, James still makes me a cup of warm tea – made his way: not too long boiling water, light cinnamon scent, a thin slice of orange.

He says: