When I turned 62, life felt calm but uneventful. My husband had been gone for many years, and my children had their own families now — too busy to visit often.
I lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of town. In the evenings, I would sit by the window, listening to birds chirping softly and watching the golden sunlight stretch across the empty street. It was peaceful, yet beneath that quiet surface lay something I rarely admitted — loneliness.
I wandered into a small bar glowing with warm yellow light. The music was gentle, the air soft. I chose a corner seat and ordered a glass of red wine. It had been years since I’d tasted alcohol; the sharp sweetness spread across my tongue and soothed me.
