When we first met, Jack and I were teenagers, working in a salt factory in Cheshire. I'd stand all day at a conveyer belt, packing salt, and his job was turning it into blocks. It was terribly hard work, but he always seemed to be whistling or singing. That's what struck me first – his endlessly optimistic nature.

Jack was looking for somewhere to live and I felt sorry for him – his mum had remarried and moved to Canada, and he didn't have any digs. I lived at home with my mum, dad and three sisters in a big four-storey house. I asked my dad if he could move into our spare room and, eventually, after he met Jack, he agreed. "But you'd better bloody behave yourself around my four girls," he added, "Otherwise you'll be out on your neck."

Before long, Jack and I were doing everything together – going for long walks, to the cinema, dancing. After about a year, he went into town and bought me an engagement ring. But my mother wasn't happy – she had always been a bit of a nitpicker, but now she seemed constantly critical of me, and of my relationship with Jack. After four or five months, I couldn't take it any more. My mum wore me down and I gave the ring back to Jack.

I was heartbroken, but I had to do it, for my own sanity. In time, I met someone else – Jack finally moved out when I got married at 21. But I thought about him all the time – whenever I visited my parents, I'd see things that had been his and they always made me feel sad.

I knew the day I got married I'd made a mistake, but I spent 19 years in an unhappy marriage. Eventually, I walked out with my two children, and remarried. In over five decades, I saw Jack only once – at my dad's funeral more than 20 years ago. Jack heard about it and came to pay his respects. I gave him a hug and said how good it was to see him. I remember thinking, "My goodness, I wish my stomach would keep still."

My second husband died nine years ago, and in February I moved into a sheltered accommodation complex, close to where I grew up. A few weeks later, I kept seeing a man there who seemed oddly familiar – I even said hello to him in the garden. One night, the organiser of my monthly supper club said, "We've got some new recruits tonight." She reeled off some names and one of them caught my attention. "Jack Lee?" I said. "Where's he from?" At that moment he walked into the room.

He looked at me and I simply pointed at myself and said, "Freda Wardle". He didn't say anything for a moment, just carried on looking. I was 71, and wondered if he recognised me. Then he bent over and gave me a kiss. "I'll tell you what, Freda," he said. "You're still a great kisser even after all these years.

That night we sat in the communal lounge talking until 2.30am. It seemed as if no time had passed at all, as if we were carrying on where we'd left off. Jack had been married, too, and had four children of his own. Over the years, we'd lived thousands of miles apart – Jack spent some time in the States – and at one point only 500 yards from one other without ever knowing. We seemed to share so much in common and started to see each other regularly.

Soon we were courting again and then, one afternoon in August, he turned up at the charity shop where I volunteer. "Freda Wardle," he said, "will you marry me?" The shop was full of customers, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. I tried to get him to go, but he said he wouldn't leave without an answer. So, of course, I said yes.

We were married in September, 53 years after we'd first been engaged – there didn't seem any point in hanging around any longer. The wedding was at a church next door but one to the house where we'd lived all those years ago – my dad's church. We walked through arches made of walking sticks. My youngest sister was there, as were our children and grandchildren.

We've moved in together and we'll be having a honeymoon at Christmas. I don't have any regrets about the life we could have had – I do believe things have worked out the way they were meant to, and now that we're together, those 53 years don't mean anything – it's just like we're teenagers again.

• As told to Chris Broughton

Do you have an experience to share? Email experience@theguardian.com