My name is Susan. I am 67 years old. And this is my story.
I was sure I knew everything about my quiet life in retirement. But one ordinary evening and a random Facebook post changed everything. What I saw in an old photograph instantly brought me back to a love I thought was long gone.
I never thought that a quiet evening on the sofa would open doors I thought were closed forever.
I worked as a nurse for over forty years.
Now I only take the occasional shift, mainly to help my daughter Megan. She works full-time and is raising two children on her own after her ex-husband disappeared four years ago.
I pick up my grandchildren from school, help pay the bills when times are tough, and just keep the house in order so that Megan can catch her breath. I’m not complaining. This is my family. They have given me more joy than anything else in my life.
My life now is quiet, calm, predictable.
I know the rhythm of my days: early mornings with a cup of coffee while the children are still asleep, trips to the shops, cartoons in the afternoon, the occasional night shift at the hospital.
My husband and I separated many years ago. I haven’t had a romantic relationship since.
Christmas was approaching. I came home around nine in the evening after my last shift before the holidays. Tired, with a sore back and heavy legs. I reheated the leftover meat pie, made some herbal tea and sat down on the sofa.
The children were already asleep. Megan was checking her notebooks in her room. The house was filled only with the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet creaking of the old floor.
The children were already asleep. Megan was checking her notebooks in her room. The house was filled only with the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet creaking of the old floorboards.
I opened Facebook out of habit. I usually go there to look at photos of my friends’ grandchildren or local news.
And suddenly — I froze.
It was an old, faded photograph. It was a little blurry, clearly scanned from a paper print.
It showed two young people standing very close to each other. In the background was the brick wall of my university library, covered in ivy.
And then I understood.
The girl in the photo was me.
I was wearing old clothes that I wore almost every day. My hair was parted straight down the middle. Next to me was a boy hugging me.
Daniel.
My first love.
My hands trembled. I hadn’t seen this photo since my school days and didn’t even remember anyone taking it.
Underneath the photo was written:
“I am looking for the woman in this photo. Her name is Susan. We studied together in the late 70s. She was my first love. My family suddenly moved away and I lost touch with her. I don’t know how her life turned out or if she will see this post.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
‘I’m not trying to change the past. I just want to give her one thing that I’ve kept for over forty years. If you recognise her, please let her know.’
I stared at the screen, feeling a lump rise in my throat. The name I hadn’t uttered in decades hit my memory like a wave.
We were young. He was kind, lively, always in a hurry. He walked me to class, even if it meant being late for his own. We could talk for hours about nothing — and everything at the same time.
And then one day he disappeared.
Without saying goodbye. Without explanation.
I found out that his family had moved to the other end of the country. At the time, I had no answers and no strength to look for them. I just moved on — there was no other way to live.
And now, 45 years later, he was still thinking about me.
I closed the app. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t yet.
I hardly slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that photo.
In the morning, Megan noticed my state.
‘Mum, are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Just a strange dream.’
But it wasn’t a dream.
I opened Facebook again, found the post and went to his profile. Grey hair, a familiar, gentle gaze. Photos of walks, a Labrador named Jasper, a picture with a woman — probably his sister.
I wrote a long message and deleted it. In the end, I simply wrote:
‘My name is Susan. I think I’m the woman in the photo.’
He replied a few minutes later.
We agreed to meet at a small café near my house.
When I walked in, he was already there. He stood up, just like before. We just looked at each other.
‘Hello, Susan.’
His voice was older, more hoarse — but it was the same voice.
He told me why he had disappeared. His father had had a stroke. Illness. An urgent move. Responsibilities that had suddenly fallen on him. He hadn’t been able to call or write.
Then he took out a small box.
Inside was a simple gold ring.
‘I kept it not because I was waiting,’ he said. ‘But because it was yours. I wanted you to know that you were loved.’
I didn’t cry. I just felt something long unfinished finally fall into place.
We talked for a long time. About life. About children. About how everything turned out differently than we had dreamed — but it still turned out.
He didn’t ask for anything. He just said:
‘Thank you for coming.’
I returned home with a feeling of quiet peace. It was as if I had closed a book that I once loved very much and finally put it on the shelf.
But that wasn’t the end.
A week later, he called. Then he invited me to dinner. Then for a walk.
No rush. No promises.
Now we meet regularly. Sometimes we just sit on a bench in the park. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we are silent.
I don’t know where this road will take us.
But I know one thing:
He didn’t come to rewrite the past.
He came to tell me that I was loved.
And that was enough to make the future warm again.
