Still choosing you.
That night, we went home together.
Nothing magically became perfect.
We didn’t suddenly become twenty-five again.
But for the first time in almost two years, Robert didn’t turn away from me.
He reached for my hand in the dark.
And we talked.
Really talked.
About fear.
Age.
Desire.
Embarrassment.
And all the things married people sometimes stop saying because they assume thirty years together means the other person should already know.
I was fifty-six when I learned something I wish I had understood much earlier.
Sometimes the thing destroying intimacy isn’t another woman.
It isn’t age.
It isn’t even the body changing.
Sometimes it is simply two people who still love each other becoming too afraid to tell each other the truth.
That night, Robert and I did not become young again.
We became husband and wife again.
