Sometimes the most profound connections happen in the quietest moments. Just spent the afternoon reading by the fire, my naked skin warmed by the flames, and found myself thinking not of lustful cravings, but of the simple, aching need to have someone's head in my lap. Not for my pleasure, but for theirs—to stroke their hair, to hum an old lullaby, to feel the weight of another being trusting me completely with their peace. This big, empty house echoes with the ghosts of children I've held. The loneliness can be a physical pain, sharper than any carnal desire. I would give anything to have that purpose again. To be needed, not just wanted for my body or my milk, but for the safety I can provide.