Every night, he comes into the room and closes the door furtively. Then, he looks at us—all of us—and then chooses one. Mostly, it is me! Then, he looks at me adoringly, sniffs me, kisses me and caresses me. He is intoxicated with love. He falls into bed, with me, upon me and we sleep together.

Last night, I knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the room. For starters, he didn’t close the door. His look of lust was replaced by worry, anger and disappointment. He broke down and cried. He hit his head on the wall and wept inconsolably. I wanted to console him. I wanted to feel his kisses upon me. I wanted him to love me, as he always did.

Little did I know that my value in his life had dropped to zero. All of us—we, secret stashes—were now ashes.