I slept with a stranger at sixty-five because I didn’t want to die feeling like a widow on the inside. The next morning, I woke up in a cheap motel on the outskirts of San Antonio… and the man was already dressed, weeping, clutching a forty-year-old photo of me in his hands.
He no longer sounded like the man I’d slept with. He sounded like a frightened boy. “Before she died,” Arthur said, “my mother confessed everything to me.” I couldn’t move. The photo of the baby weighed in my hand as if it were made of lead. “Everything what?” Arthur pulled a yellowish envelope from the…
