beneath me.
I went into the bathroom and locked the door.
For a long time, I stared at my reflection.
That was the first night I wondered:
Maybe Robert isn’t the problem. Maybe I’m simply not that woman anymore.
A few weeks later, I tried again.
I made a romantic dinner.
Candles.
Wine.
I walked over to him, kissed him, and tried to remind him of the years when he couldn’t even pass me in the kitchen without pulling me close.
Robert simply kissed my forehead.
“I’m tired, sweetheart. Tomorrow.”
But that “tomorrow” never came.
Then another tomorrow passed.
And another.
Eventually, I stopped trying.
Worse, I began to hate myself.
When I changed clothes, I stopped looking in the mirror.
I started thinking that this part of my life as a woman was simply over.
Until I met Eric.
He was thirty-four.
I was at a bar with a friend when I noticed him looking at me.
At first, I actually turned around to see whether there was another woman behind me.
There wasn’t.
He was looking at me.
A few minutes later, he came over.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I laughed.
“I’m old enough to be your mother.”
He didn’t even blink.
“I’m not looking at your age.”
That one sentence stayed in my head for days.
Eric gave me his number.
I promised myself I would never use it.
I lasted three days.
On the fourth, I sent one word.
“Hi.”
That one word became the most dangerous word in my marriage.
At first, we only talked.
Then he started telling me I was beautiful.
When I sent him a photo, he never said, “You look great for your age.”
He simply said:
“You’re beautiful.”
I started
