At the age of 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 to feel passion. But when I woke up alone in the hotel room the next morning, I discovered something scary...

A hotel room.

People would imagine the rest.

I imagined my daughter's silence.

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The shamed expression of my son.

To my neighbors whispering behind the curtains.

For a terrible moment, I stretched my hand to the hotel phone to call my bank.

Then I stopped.

Why did I have to be ashamed?

I hadn't betrayed anyone.

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I hadn't hurt anyone.

I wanted to feel warmth.

I wanted passion.

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

The person who had to be ashamed was Julian.

Not me.

I took the picture again.

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That's when I noticed something strange.

In the mirror behind the bed was a faint reflection.

Julian hadn't taken the picture.

A second person had been standing near the bathroom door, holding a phone.