I Found True Love in My 50s, My Fiance Died 5 Days After He Proposed

It all began on a snowy Sunday morning in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, when I walked into the Red Lion Inn looking for a copy of The New York Times. The receptionist told me the last paper had just been taken by a handsome man nearby. He sheepishly handed me his copy, and we bonded over the Sunday crossword puzzle, which I preferred over Saturday’s because it was easier. That simple moment in January 2019 was the start of something unexpected. I was 54, divorced, with two kids in college, and honestly, I’d been avoiding love for a long time, convinced it wasn’t meant for me. From that moment on, Bhima and I clicked instantly. He was originally from India, had moved to the U.S. 30 years earlier for a Ph.D. in engineering, and had since shifted to working in renewable energy. I shared my story too—how I was adopted and came to America from England to find my birth mother, eventually becoming a comedian, novelist, and audiobook narrator. We laughed about our past relationships—his frustrations with American women being confrontational, and my own gripes about American men, especially when packing for trips. From that day, we spent every spare moment together, hiking, listening to jazz, traveling, and meeting each other's families. We fell deeply in love but were cautious. I remember telling Bhima, "But we can’t be in love." He asked why, and I said, “There’s no friction. We don’t have to negotiate.” But he smiled and said, “Isn’t it great?” For both of us, it was like finally taking off a shoe that had been too tight for years. In our 50s, we found a love that just fit perfectly, with trust and understanding I’d never known. In late July 2020, Bhima proposed during a walk by a river. We were glowing with happiness, dreaming about the life ahead—him turning plastics into fuel, me writing again, and building a home filled with love and family. But just five days later, everything changed. Bhima fell suddenly ill and was rushed to a medical center for a COVID test. I wasn’t allowed to be with him. Moments later, I was told he had gone into cardiac arrest and was pronounced dead. I was numb, barely functioning, lying on my sofa, unable to eat or work. Six weeks after his death, I heard Bhima’s voice in my head telling me not to waste time and to get into the best shape of my life. So I started running along the rivers and climbing the mountains where we’d walked together. Slowly, the numbness melted away, replaced by an unexpected joy. It reminded me of the feeling after childbirth—the pain fades but leaves behind something precious and life-changing. Seeking answers, I reached out to Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who encouraged me to share this story widely as a beacon of hope. Bhima’s voice urged me on, pushing me to create. I wrote a solo show, "Grief… A Comedy," which became a hit in Edinburgh and London in 2024, followed by a book with the same title. The story begins six weeks after Bhima’s death, with him showing up at my kitchen table, as lively as ever, coaxing me to love again. Imaginary? Maybe, or maybe not. I believe that when someone we deeply love passes away, a part of them lives on in us. Bhima’s words still echo: “The body may go, but the love doesn’t go anywhere. It’s called renewable energy.” That love, that energy, keeps me moving forward.