At sixty-two, I spent the night with a man twenty-eight years younger than me. I did it because I was tired of being invisible—and because, for once, I wanted passion. But when I woke up alone in the hotel room the next morning, I discovered something terrifying.

A lonely sixty-two-year-old widow.

A man twenty-eight years younger.

A hotel room.

People would fill in the rest themselves.

I imagined my daughter’s silence.

 

My son’s embarrassed expression.

My neighbors whispering behind curtains.

For one terrible moment, I reached for the hotel phone to call my bank.

Then I stopped.

Why was I ashamed?

I had not betrayed anyone.

I had not hurt anyone.

I had wanted warmth.

I had wanted passion.

I had wanted to feel desired after eight years of being treated as though that part of my life had ended with my husband’s funeral.

The person who should have been ashamed was Julian.

Not me.

I picked up the photograph again.

That was when I noticed something strange.

In the mirror behind the bed, there was a faint reflection.