beneath me.
I went into the bathroom and locked the door.
For a long time, I stared at my reflection.
That was the first night I wondered:
Maybe Robert isn’t the problem. Maybe I’m simply not that woman anymore.
A few weeks later, I tried again.
I made a romantic dinner.
Candles.
Wine.
I walked over to him, kissed him, and tried to remind him of the years when he couldn’t even pass me in the kitchen without pulling me close.
Robert simply kissed my forehead.
“I’m tired, sweetheart. Tomorrow.”
But that “tomorrow” never came.
Then another tomorrow passed.
And another.
Eventually, I stopped trying.
Worse, I began to hate myself.
When I changed clothes, I stopped looking in the mirror.
I started thinking that this part of my life as a woman was simply over.
Until I met Eric.
He was thirty-four.
