At 69 years old, I longed for passion, intimacy, and that long-forgotten feeling of finally being kable to relax beside someone who still found me desirable, while my husband lay sick in his bed… Now, please tell me honestly: did I make a mistake by treating him this way?

When he first gently touched my waist, I should have pulled away.

I knew it.

Robert was sick in the next room. My son lived upstairs with his wife and their young child. But for a moment, I forgot all of them, because someone had made me feel alive again.

From that day on, I became careful.

I deleted the messages. I said I was going to evening prayers. And I told Michael that Laura watched me as if I were a criminal, and my son — as always — believed me.

Until that Thursday evening.

Robert took his medication early. Michael and Laura were upstairs. The house was quiet, and Adrian entered through the back door.

I told myself I deserved one hour.

Just one single hour.

Then I heard a faint noise coming from Robert’s room.

I stood up and saw him at the doorway, half leaning against his wheelchair. His face was pale. With a trembling hand, he reached toward the small bell he used whenever he needed help.

He saw us.

Adrian stepped back in horror.

But I walked over to Robert, and for the first time in forty-six years, I did not feel pity for him.