After everyone had gone to bed, my 96-year-old Aunt Frieda would slip on her red, high-heel slippers, peek out of her nursing home door and run naked to her beloved Shottsy, a fellow resident. In her mind he was my Uncle Joe, her husband who died 30 years before. Shottsy would expect my aunt’s visits, lying under his covers in anticipation. One night Aunt Frieda surprised him. Shottsy shrieked when she arrived. Aunt Frieda had the cake frosting from her dinner tray spread across her breasts. The nursing home called me with concern. Aunt Frieda insisted it was their anniversary.

Date night! Tonight we are free! No bottoms to wipe or mouths to feed; it’s just you and me. “We should go out,” I say. “Run naked in the rain, make love on a train or something?” But we don’t. Instead, we look at pictures of the children on our phones until we fall asleep.