It always amazed Charlotte how children of the same parents could be so inherently different from each other.

Charlotte worried about Matt. She knew Hank would be all right. And she prayed every day that the kids didn't sense the discrepancy.

Charlotte went to her bedroom, closed and locked the door, and arranged the pillows just the way she liked- stacked five high behind her back. Kurt used to tease her, saying that in a bed with six pillows you'd think a man could have at least two, but no…

Some nights she simply missed Kurt. She missed his comforting warmth, familiar smell, and the steady in-and-out of his breath in sleep. Tonight, she missed sex. She missed it with such a sharp emptiness that it made her legs and arms ache. So she put the sixth pillow on her lap, unlocked her nightstand, and got out the cloth-covered poetry journal. She opened it to the first blank page and began to write.

She needed this tonight. She needed to release the pressure building inside her, feel the hot, sharp rush and resulting peace, just to survive until morning.

She'd felt so alone today, especially when she sat at the Raffertys' kitchen table, preparing their low-fat, high-fiber, plant-based, protein-centered meal plan. Her eyes kept returning to the well-formed backside of the pool restorer, his broad shoulders, his neck ropy with muscle and tendon. She stared at him as he measured and prodded and climbed down the pool ladder into the dry depths.

Of course he'd caught her staring out the picture window. How embarrassing! But he'd smiled-a little too brightly-and she'd quickly gone back to printing out the recipe for Chinese green bean and tempeh salad.

Charlotte uncapped the ink pen now and closed her eyes, letting the slap of guilt sting her the way it always did. She fought it off, reminding herself that this little hobby of hers hurt no one, telling herself that despite everything she'd ever been taught, it could hardly be considered a sin.