No flowers arrived.
By late afternoon, I was sitting alone at the kitchen table with a small piece of chocolate cake I had bought for myself.
A single candle stood in the center.
I did not even have the courage to light it.
As I stared at that candle, I finally admitted something I had been ashamed to say aloud.
I did not want another quiet evening.
I did not want sympathy or polite conversation.
I wanted passion.
I wanted a man to look at me with desire and make me remember that I was still a woman—not only a mother, a widow, or an older person everyone had stopped noticing.
I pushed my chair back and went upstairs.
At the back of my wardrobe hung a dark-blue dress I had not worn since Richard was alive.
It was elegant, simple, and a little tighter than I remembered.
