That night, after they all left, I stayed in the living room, looking at my husband’s photo.
For twelve years I had kept that secret as a duty to him.
Now I understood that I had no reason to be ashamed.
Robert had been a man I loved, but he had also had desires that I did not share. I could remember him fondly without hiding the difficult things in our marriage.
I put the photo back on the shelf and went to prepare my tea.
Before I went to bed, Daniel called.
Mom, are you okay?
I am fine, my dear.
Sure?
I looked at the calendar on which I had written down my next medical check-up.
Yes. And if I’m not, this time I’ll tell you.
I heard him laughing.
At the age of eighty, I had not brought a child into the world, as they all feared in the beginning. But I was going through an attempt that made me understand how much it matters not to hide my suffering from the people who love me.
