Gazing at the man sleeping next to me, my naked body lying beside his, I felt a maelstrom of emotions.
Joy, guilt, relief, confusion, sadness: all these feelings swirled as I contemplated the night of intimacy we had just shared.
This man was not my husband. But my turmoil was not due to being unfaithful.
Instead, he was the first man I’d been intimate with since my husband of six years, Simon, had died suddenly of a cardiac arrest less than a year before, aged just 43. I was 39.
At first, I’d buried my own grief as I focused on our two daughters.
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