The Widow's Son
"His best friend died six months ago. Her mother calls him over to 'help around the house.' She doesn't want help. She wants him to fill the void her son left—in every way."
Danny was my best friend for twenty years.
We met in third grade. We played Little League together, got drunk together for the first time at fifteen, went to the same college, stood as best men at each other's weddings. He was the brother I never had.
Six months ago, a drunk driver ran a red light.
Danny didn't make it to the hospital.
And now his mother is calling me, asking me to come fix her garbage disposal, and I know—I know—that's not what she really wants.
Linda Harrison was always more mother to me than my own.
My parents divorced when I was twelve, and both remarried quickly, eager to start new families that didn't include me. Danny's mom took me in. Fed me dinner four nights a week. Drove me to practice when no one else would. Hugged me when I graduated, when I got married, when my own kids were born.
She was there for everything.
And now her son is dead, and I'm all she has left.
I park in her driveway and sit for a moment.
The house looks the same. Same gray siding, same white shutters, same garden that Linda tends with obsessive care. But there's something different too—a stillness, a quiet that wasn't there before.
Danny's car is still in the driveway. His basketball hoop is still above the garage. His bedroom window, upstairs and to the left, is dark.
Six months, and she hasn't changed anything.
I take a breath and walk to the door.
She opens it before I can knock.
"Mark." She says my name like a prayer. "You came."
"Of course I came, Linda. You needed help."
"I do." She steps back, and I see her for the first time since the funeral.
She's bigger than I remember. Linda was always a large woman—I'd guess she was around two-twenty when Danny was alive. But grief has added weight, or maybe just made her careless about hiding it. She's closer to two-sixty now, maybe more, her body soft and round beneath a faded floral dress.
But her eyes are what hit me. Empty. Hollow. The eyes of someone who lost everything and doesn't know how to start again.
"Come in," she says. "Please."
The garbage disposal isn't broken.
I spend twenty minutes looking at it, testing it, running it. There's nothing wrong. When I tell Linda this, she nods like she already knew.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I needed an excuse."
"An excuse for what?"
She's sitting at the kitchen table, the same table where I ate a thousand dinners as a kid. Her hands are wrapped around a coffee mug, knuckles white.
"To see you," she says. "To not be alone."
My heart breaks a little.
"Linda, you're not alone. I'm always here. You know that."
"I know." She looks up at me, and there are tears in her eyes. "But it's not the same. You have your wife, your kids, your life. You come when you can, and I'm grateful, but then you leave. And I'm here. In this house. Surrounded by his things."
"We could pack some of them up—"
"No." The word is sharp. "No. I can't. Not yet."
I don't argue. I sit down across from her and take her hands.
"What do you need, Linda? Tell me what you need."
She looks at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her face—a decision being made, a line being crossed.
"Stay," she says. "Tonight. Just... stay with me. I can't be alone again."
I tell my wife there was more work than expected.
She's annoyed but understanding. "Take care of her," she says. "She needs you."
She has no idea how right she is.
Linda makes dinner.
It's familiar—pot roast, the recipe she made for us as kids. Danny's favorite. She apologizes twice for making it, then admits she can't stop. It's how she keeps him close.
We eat in relative silence. The chair across from me is empty. Danny's chair. Neither of us acknowledges it.
After, we move to the living room. She pours wine—the good stuff, from a dusty bottle she's been saving. We sit on the couch, closer than we probably should, and she tells me stories.
Stories about Danny as a baby. As a toddler. As the little boy I met in third grade, before I knew him. She's filling in gaps, giving me pieces of him I never had.
She cries.
I hold her.
"You're so much like him."
It's past midnight. The wine bottle is empty. We're still on the couch, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her.
"Everyone says that," I reply.
"Because it's true." She shifts, looks up at me. Her eyes are clearer now—still sad, but sharper. "The way you hold yourself. The way you laugh. Sometimes I forget..."
"Forget what?"
"That you're not him." Her hand finds my chest. "That you're not my son."
"Linda—"
"I know." She doesn't move her hand. "I know you're not. I know this is wrong. But sometimes, when you're here... I can pretend. Just for a moment. That he's not gone."
Her hand slides higher. Finds my jaw. Cups my face.
"Let me pretend," she whispers. "Just for tonight. Let me pretend you're him."
I should leave.
I should stand up, thank her for dinner, promise to call tomorrow. I should go home to my wife, my kids, my life that doesn't include this broken woman and her impossible request.
Instead, I kiss her.
She tastes like wine and tears.
Her mouth is soft, hesitant at first, then hungry. She pulls me closer, her body pressing against mine—all that soft, grieving flesh—and I feel her need like a physical thing.
"Please," she whispers between kisses. "Please. I need this. I need you."
"I'm not him, Linda."
"I know." Her hands fumble with my shirt. "But you're part of him. The best part. The part he loved most."
She's crying again. Crying and kissing me, undressing me, pulling me down on top of her.
And I let her.
Because Danny was my best friend.
Because his mother saved me when no one else would.
Because sometimes the wrong thing is the only thing that feels right.
Her body is softer than anything I've known.
Two hundred and sixty pounds of warm, yielding flesh beneath me. Her breasts are massive—heavy, pendulous, nipples dark against pale skin. Her belly is round, soft, dotted with stretch marks from the son she'll never hold again.
"Touch me," she breathes. "Please. It's been so long."
I touch her everywhere. Her breasts, her belly, her thick thighs. She moans at every caress, arches into every stroke. She's been empty for so long—not just since Danny died, but for years before. Her husband left when Danny was ten. No one since.
"I'm going to make you feel good," I tell her. "I promise."
"You already do." She pulls me down, kisses me again. "You already do."
When I enter her, she cries out.
Not in pain—in release. In relief. In something that sounds almost like joy.
"Yes—" She wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper. "Yes, like that—just like that—"
I move slowly. Carefully. This isn't fucking—it's something else. Something I don't have words for. Comfort, maybe. Connection. A bridge between the living and the dead.
"Danny," she whispers.
I freeze.
"I'm sorry—" She opens her eyes, sees my face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay." And somehow, it is. "If you need to... if it helps... it's okay."
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods.
"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you."
She closes her eyes again. And I continue.
She comes three times.
The first is almost immediate—months, years of loneliness crashing down at once. The second is slower, building as I find my rhythm, as I learn what she needs. The third is with my mouth, as I worship her body, as I give her pleasure I know she hasn't felt in decades.
When I finally spill inside her, she holds me like she'll never let go.
"Stay," she whispers. "Not just tonight. Stay."
"Linda—"
"I know you can't." She strokes my hair. "I know you have a life. But come back. Please. Come back whenever you can."
I kiss her forehead.
"I will," I promise.
And I mean it.
I leave in the morning.
My wife asks how Linda is doing. I tell her she's struggling, which is true. I tell her I'll check on her regularly, which is also true.
What I don't tell her is that checking on Linda now means something different.
That when I come to fix her leaky faucet next week, I'll end up in her bed.
That when I bring her groceries the week after, she'll thank me on her knees.
That I'll become the son she lost in every way that matters—including the ways that don't.
Six Months Later
I'm at Linda's three times a week now.
My wife thinks I'm a saint. "Taking care of that poor woman," she says. "Danny would be so grateful."
Maybe he would. Maybe he's watching from somewhere, understanding that this is what his mother needs to survive. Or maybe he's furious, betrayed, cursing me for taking his place.
I don't know anymore.
All I know is that when Linda calls my name—my name, now, not Danny's—and pulls me inside her, the hollow in her eyes fills.
And maybe that's enough.
Maybe that's all we can ask for.
The dead leave holes in us.
Sometimes the living have to fill them.
Even when it's wrong.
Especially when it's wrong.