At 65, I Remarried After Being Widowed for More Than 30 Years.
My Children Went Mad, They Insulted Me—Until the Day They Had to Kneel Before My New Husband.

I am now 65 years old. More than 30 years ago, my husband passed away in a traffic accident on his way home from work. At that time, I was just in my early thirties, empty-handed, with only two young children clinging to me.

I once thought I would bury my youth at my husband’s altar, swallowing my tears in silence, living only to raise my children to adulthood. And that is exactly what happened… For more than 30 years, I toiled endlessly, from planting and harvesting for others, to selling small goods in the market. My hands grew calloused, my back bent with age, but in return, both of my children grew up well: my son graduated from university and went into business; my daughter married a kind man and built a peaceful family.

Yet, what pierced my heart was that they never once invited me to live with them. I knew they had their own lives, their own families, and I did not want to be a burden. So, after marrying off both children, I quietly returned to my small house, living alone with loneliness day after day.

The Fateful Encounter

One day, I met him.
He was just a bicycle repairman at the end of the street, living all alone, with no wife and no children. His hair was nearly all gray, his sun-darkened hands rough with calluses. He didn’t talk much, just silently patched each tire, adjusted each spoke. But his eyes… they were kind, deep, and strangely warm.

The heart of a woman who thought it had gone cold suddenly stirred again. I decided to remarry and bring him home with me.

The moment the news came out, both my son and daughter exploded.

“What are you thinking? You’re 65 years old—why get married again? If word gets out, the whole family will lose face!” – my son shouted.

“Do you ever think about us? People will laugh at our husbands, our children!” – my daughter chimed in.

They hurled the harshest words at me. I stayed silent. I had sacrificed my whole life for them, yet when I wanted to live for myself, they treated me so cruelly.

Meanwhile, he only bowed his head quietly, never uttering a word in defense. That sight pierced my heart, but it also strengthened my resolve: “I’m marrying him not to beg for anyone’s approval.”

Two Years of Estrangement

On our wedding day, neither child came. For two whole years afterward, not once did they step foot into my home. On my late husband’s death anniversary, on Lunar New Year’s Day, the house was silent, only me and him sitting over a simple meal.

At times, I felt bitterness well up, but then I’d see him quietly pour me a cup of tea, and my heart would find peace again.

The Day My Son Returned

One day, the door opened and my son walked in. He looked so worn down I almost didn’t recognize him: unkempt beard, dark circles under his eyes, a haggard figure.

He collapsed to his knees before me, sobbing:

“Mother, I’ve lost everything… my business failed, my wife wants a divorce, her family treats me like a useless outcast… I have nowhere left to go.”

I embraced him, my heart breaking. Just then, my daughter arrived. She fussed over her brother, asking questions, but when the subject of money came up, she fell silent. I understood—her own life was hard, her income meager, still dependent on her husband and burdened with her in-laws.

I looked at my children, my heart aching with love, but I had nothing left except this little house. Tears welled up—I felt powerless…

The Bicycle Repairman Stepped Forward

At that moment, he came out from the room, carrying an old wooden box. He sat down, placed it in front of me, and said in his steady, gentle voice:

“This is everything I’ve saved in my life. I meant to keep it for old age. But now that your son is in trouble, please use it for him. Your children are my children too.”

I was startled:

“No… I can’t accept this. That’s the blood and sweat of your entire life!”

He smiled kindly and pushed the box toward me:

“If you are sad, I’m sad too. If helping your children eases your heart, then I will feel at peace.”

My hands trembled as I opened the box. Inside were a few gold rings, a chain, and a savings book with a considerable amount—his life’s work from over 40 years of patiently patching tires and fixing old bicycle frames.

The Moment of Kneeling

My son froze. Then he broke down, rushing forward to kneel at his stepfather’s feet:

“I… I’m sorry! I was wrong. I once looked down on you, insulted you… Yet today, you are the one saving my life. I owe you an apology I should have given long ago!”

Tears streamed down my face. My daughter, too, knelt beside her brother, holding his hand and crying:

“We… we were wrong. Mother chose the right man.”

He only smiled, his thin hand resting gently on their heads, like a kind father who had long been waiting for this moment.

Conclusion

That day, I knew I had not been wrong in choosing to remarry. Happiness, it turns out, sometimes comes from the simplest of men, from a love that is quiet but deep.

And from that day forward, my children understood: the bicycle repairman at the end of the street was not only my husband—but also their second father.