Starting Over at Sixty Years Old

At eighty, I lay dying in a sterile hospital room, a life I felt was utterly wasted flashing before my eyes.

My wife of sixty years, Olivia Hayes, sat beside me, her stoic composure a familiar mask.

Then, her whispered confession shattered everything: "Tell Daniel… I've always loved him."

Daniel, her colleague from decades ago.

Sixty years of quiet resentment, of being a placeholder, a fool.

Rage burned in my dying body-a useless, consuming fire.

Then, darkness.

Light. Soft blankets. My young mother' s beaming face.

It was 1987. I was a baby again, but the memories of my eighty-year life, and Olivia's betrayal, were searing.

"Mom," I squeaked, my infant voice unwavering, "I won't marry Olivia Hayes."