Son's Wife
"His son travels constantly. His daughter-in-law is lonely. He's been widowed for years. Some lines shouldn't be crossed — but they cross anyway."
Michael is always traveling.
My son — the successful one, the driven one — built an empire that keeps him on planes more than on the ground. He loves his work. Maybe more than he loves anything.
His wife, Priya, stays home.
I've been widowed for six years.
Barbara was the love of my life. When she died, I thought I'd never feel anything again. I went through the motions — work, meals, sleep, repeat. Nothing touched me.
Then Priya started coming over.
"You shouldn't be alone so much," she says.
She's standing in my kitchen, putting away groceries she bought. My fridge has been empty for weeks. I didn't notice until she did.
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She closes the fridge. "When's the last time you had a real meal?"
"I eat."
"Takeout containers don't count." She moves past me, close enough to smell her perfume. "I'm cooking you dinner. No arguments."
I don't argue.
Priya is nothing like Barbara.
Where Barbara was small and quick, Priya is soft and steady. Full curves that her sundress can't hide. Warm brown eyes that see more than they should.
She and Michael married five years ago. I remember thinking my son had done well for himself.
Now I think he doesn't deserve her.
She cooks dinner twice a week now.
Tuesdays and Sundays. Shows up with groceries, takes over my kitchen, fills my house with smells I'd forgotten.
"You don't have to do this," I tell her.
"I know." She hands me a plate. "I want to."
"Michael—"
"Is in Singapore until Friday." She sits across from me. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
We develop a routine.
Dinner. Conversation. Sometimes a movie. Normal things. Father-in-law and daughter-in-law things.
But I notice how she looks at me.
And I'm terrified she notices how I look at her.
"Can I ask you something?" she says one night.
"Of course."
"Do you ever get lonely?"
The question catches me off guard. "Sometimes."
"Me too." She sets down her wine glass. "Michael's gone so much. I love this house, but it's so quiet. I talk to myself sometimes just to hear a voice."
"That's no way to live."
"No. It's not." Her eyes meet mine. "That's why I come here."
"For company?"
"For you." She looks away. "You're the only one who sees me anymore."
I should change the subject.
Should make a joke, lighten the mood, send her home to her empty house and pretend this conversation never happened.
"I see you," I say instead. "I've always seen you."
"I know." Her voice is small. "That's the problem."
It happens on a Tuesday.
Michael's been gone for two weeks. Some deal in Tokyo. Phone calls at odd hours. Texts that get shorter every day.
Priya arrives at my door with red eyes and groceries.
"What happened?"
"Nothing." She pushes past me. "Everything. I don't know."
I follow her to the kitchen. Watch her unpack groceries with shaking hands.
"Priya."
"He's not coming home Friday." Her voice cracks. "Extended the trip. Third time this month."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?" She turns to face me. "Are you sorry he's not coming home? Or are you sorry I'm upset?"
I don't answer. Can't answer.
"That's what I thought." She crosses to me. "I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of pretending I don't feel what I feel."
"What do you feel?"
"You know." She's close now. Close enough to touch. "You've known for months."
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"You're my son's wife."
"Your son doesn't want me." Her voice breaks. "He hasn't touched me in six months. He barely looks at me. I'm furniture to him."
"That doesn't make this right."
"No. It doesn't." She reaches up, touches my face. "But it doesn't make it wrong either."
"Priya—"
"Just once." Her eyes are wet. "Just let me feel wanted. Just once."
I kiss her.
I know I shouldn't. I know this will destroy everything.
But she's soft in my arms, and she's crying, and I've been so goddamn lonely for so long.
"Robert," she breathes against my mouth. "Please."
I stop thinking.
We make it to the bedroom.
Barbara's bedroom. Our bedroom. I haven't brought anyone here in six years.
Priya doesn't seem to notice. Or doesn't care. She's pulling at my clothes, urgent and desperate.
"I need you," she says. "I need to feel something."
"I've got you."
I lay her on the bed. My son's wife. On my bed. Everything about this is wrong.
Everything about this is exactly what we both need.
Her body is a revelation.
Soft everywhere. Full breasts that overflow my hands. Hips that curve out from a waist I can almost span. Belly that gives beneath my touch.
"You're beautiful," I tell her.
She cries harder. "He never says that."
"He's a fool."
"He's your son."
"He's still a fool."
I take my time with her.
Kiss every inch. Learn what makes her gasp, what makes her moan. She's responsive in ways that suggest she's been starved — and she has been. Starved for touch, for attention, for someone who sees her.
"Please," she begs. "I need you inside me."
I give her what she needs.
She comes twice before I do.
The first time, she's shocked — like she forgot her body could do that. The second time, she cries out my name.
When I come, buried deep inside my daughter-in-law, I feel something I haven't felt in years.
Alive.
After, she lies in my arms.
"This was wrong," she whispers.
"Yes."
"I don't regret it."
"Neither do I."
"What do we do now?"
I don't have an answer. So I hold her tighter.
It becomes a pattern.
Tuesdays and Sundays. Dinner and more. The weeks Michael is gone stretch longer and longer. He doesn't notice. He's too busy building his empire.
"I think he's having an affair," she says one night.
"Would that bother you?"
"It should." She traces patterns on my chest. "But I'm not in a position to judge, am I?"
"We're terrible people."
"Probably." She kisses me. "I don't care anymore."
One night, she doesn't go home.
"Stay," I say. "Just stay."
She does.
Michael calls the next morning.
"Dad? Is Priya there? She's not answering her phone."
I look at her, asleep in my bed. Peaceful. Beautiful.
"Haven't seen her," I lie. "I'll let you know if I do."
"Thanks. Hey, I'm extending the Tokyo trip again. Few more weeks. Can you check on her?"
"Of course. I'll take good care of her."
"I know you will, Dad. Thanks."
He hangs up.
Priya opens one eye. "Who was that?"
"Your husband."
"What did he want?"
"Asked me to take care of you."
She smiles. Pulls me down for a kiss.
"I think you're doing a good job."
Months pass.
Michael comes home less and less. Priya comes to my house more and more.
Eventually, she stops leaving at all.
"This is insane," I say one morning.
"Probably." She pours coffee. "But it works."
"What about Michael?"
"What about him?" She hands me a cup. "He made his choice. I made mine."
"And if he finds out?"
"Then he finds out." She shrugs. "I'm done living for someone who's never here."
The divorce papers come six months later.
Michael doesn't contest. He's too busy, too distracted, too wrapped up in whatever matters more than his marriage.
Priya signs them at my kitchen table.
"How do you feel?" I ask.
"Free." She sets down the pen. "Ready."
"Ready for what?"
She stands. Crosses to me. Wraps her arms around my neck.
"Ready to stop hiding. Ready to stop pretending this is something it's not."
"What is it?"
"Home." She kisses me. "You're my home now."
It's not traditional.
My son's ex-wife. My... partner? Lover? The love of my second life.
People talk. Michael doesn't talk to me anymore.
But Priya is here. Every morning. Every night.
And I'm not lonely anymore.