Not like a man reclaiming his wife.
Like a man being invited into her life again.
Later that night, after Michael went home to his apartment, I sat alone at the same kitchen table where this entire story had begun.
One year earlier, I had looked at a tiny birthday cake and believed I was forgotten.
My children had not called.
My husband was supposedly d/e/@/d.
My life felt as though it had already happened.
Then I put on a green dress.
I went downtown.
I met a stranger.
And nothing was ever the same.
For months, I regretted that night.
Now I understood something different.
Daniel had not saved me.
Michael had not saved me.
My children had not saved me.
I had saved myself the moment I decided loneliness was not the same thing as being finished.
At sixty-two, I believed the most surprising thing that could happen to a woman my age was being desired by a younger stranger.
