Ashes of Desire

I was twenty when I said "I do," convinced that love would be enough to carry us through anything. Matty's smile had lit up rooms back then, his confidence wrapping around me like a promise. We built a life—two beautiful children, a home filled with laughter, routines that felt safe. But safety isn't the same as fire. And our bed had gone cold long before I understood what that chill would cost me. For eighteen years, I carried the ache alone. Night after night, I reached for him, my hands trembling with hope, my voice soft with pleading. "Please," I'd whisper, hating how small I sounded. He tried sometimes—awkward, half-hearted attempts that left me emptier than before. I never knew release, never felt that shattering wave everyone else seemed to take for granted. I read books, scoured articles, begged him to see a doctor. "It's not important," he'd say, turning away. "Marriage isn't all about sex." So I swallowed my hunger, buried it under diaper changes, school runs, and the quiet pride of being a good wife, a devoted mother. Then three years ago, even the scraps vanished. No touches. No kisses. No glances that said I was still wanted. I cooked dinners naked under my apron, lit candles, poured wine, laid myself bare in every way I knew how. He looked through me. "Stop making it weird," he muttered once. I cried in the shower so the children wouldn't hear. Desperation makes you reckless. One ordinary afternoon at the mall, I collided with Andrew—older, polished, the man who