After my husband died, I thought I'd never find love again.

I did eventually–from his brother. Our shared grief turned into mutual comfort, fondness… then… lust.

The sex fills me with shame, but I can’t stop.

Yesterday evening, I had to sit on his lap during a hayride, and he… toyed with me. Even with family nearby. I’m afraid my sixteen-year-old might have seen.

“What was Uncle Dave doing with his hand yesterday?” Vanessa asks, innocently.

“He was just messing with my Pumpkin.” I point to the jack-o’-lantern, embarrassed.

“Pumpkin?” she muses. “That’s a unique name for your cunt.”