I married a 23-year-old woman when I was already 60… but on the night of our wedding, when I opened her dress, I saw something on her body that made me freeze where I stood.

And when people saw our wedding photo, they almost all thought the same thing: money.

Some people said it outright.

— “That girl is definitely after your inheritance.”

Others were more polite, but their looks said the same thing.

Even my own brother warned me.

— “At your age, young women don’t fall in love anymore… they negotiate.”

Maybe they were right.

Or maybe they simply didn’t know the whole story.

I met Daniela in a small restaurant in Manila, not far from my office.

She worked there as a waitress.

It wasn’t one of those elegant, expensive places where wealthy men take their girlfriends. It was just a simple eatery—with old tables and soft music playing in the background.

The first time I noticed her, she was arguing with the owner.

— “I can’t work another double shift,” she said.
— “My mother is in the hospital.”

The man looked completely uninterested.

— “If you don’t want the job, there are ten people waiting to take your place.”

I don’t know why I stood up.

Maybe it was the way she stood up for herself.

Or maybe she reminded me of who I used to be many years ago.

I paid for my meal and spoke to the owner.

— “Give her the day off. I’ll cover whatever you lose today.”

Daniela looked at me as if she couldn’t understand what had just happened.

— “I don’t need charity,” she said.

— “It’s not charity,” I replied.
— “I just want to make one bad day a little lighter for you.”

After that, we started talking.

At first, only when I came there for dinner.

Then we began walking together to the bus stop.

Eventually, we found ourselves sitting in quiet cafés where no one seemed to notice the large gap between our ages.

One day, she told me about her life.

Her father died when she was fifteen.