I love my wife, who is 15 years older than me, and she came with two children. A boy, almost three, and a girl, eleven. Even she didn’t understand why I would want her, thinking she came with a lot of baggage. She asked, “How is this going to work? I’m so much older than you?”
I said, “It’s just math. I’m 23 and you’re 38. So when I’m 50, you’ll be 65, and so on.”
She replied, “I’m too old to give you any children.”
I said, “What’s wrong with the two we have?”
She asked, “Let me get this straight. You’re going to raise another man’s children?”
I answered, “No. I love you, and they are a part of you. How could I not love them?”
That was 32 years ago. The children are grown. I’m 55, and she is 70. She is the love of my life, and I am hers. Our son is 35 and works as a GP, and our daughter is almost 43 and earns a six-figure salary in Finance. They call me Dad, and they call their birth father by his first name.
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