Not a mother.
Not a widow.
Not someone forgotten in the background of other people’s lives.
A woman.
Alive.
Seen.
Wanted.
The second glass of wine came.
Then the third.
We talked about life, loneliness, mistakes, and all the things people keep inside because no one asks anymore.
At some point, his hand brushed mine on the table.
I did not pull away.
His fingers were warm.
And something inside me, something I thought had died long ago, woke up quietly.
That night, I went upstairs with him to a hotel room.
I knew how it sounded.
I knew what people would say.
But in that moment, I did not feel foolish.
I felt human.
The room was dim, with city lights slipping through the curtains. He helped me take off my coat and told me I looked beautiful.
No one had said that to me in years.
