In-Laws
1072 Words
David
Her voice still echoed in my head, refusing to fade—even after sunrise.
The way Laura had sung Love’s Philosophy, her voice wrapping around the notes like silk, had stirred something in me I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just music. It was the sound of someone who had finally, unknowingly, cracked through my shell.
For the first time in years, I’d felt… still. Not empty. Not angry. Just—here.
But it wasn’t only her voice that lingered. It was her.
The way her cheeks flushed as I kissed her neck. The way her breath caught when I told her not to stop. The way she clung to me like I was more than a reluctant husband, more than a man she’d married with no promises attached.
I’d spent the night tangled in her arms, trapped in that terrifying intersection between desire and dependence. And for one reckless moment, I let myself pretend that maybe I could be what she needed.
But now, in the sober light of morning, the familiar voice inside me returned—sharp and cold.
She looked at you like you were everything. What happens when she sees the truth?
That you’re still him.
That you still break everything you touch.
The doorbell rang, slicing through the fog in my mind. My pulse jumped. For a moment, I stayed frozen, irrationally hoping it was no one.
Then I moved, fast—like if I delayed any longer, I’d fall apart entirely.
—
I glanced at the clock. 8:02.
Too early for visitors.
When I opened the door, my mother stood there, the morning light catching the pale sheen of her blouse. A pastel-wrapped bundle rested in her hands, delicate and deliberate—like everything she did.
“Mom,” I said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d stop by.” She walked in without waiting, her heels silent on the hardwood. “Is Laura home?”
“In the kitchen.”
She followed the scent of toast and coffee like a bloodhound trained on politeness. Laura looked up from the sink, towel in hand, visibly startled.
“Jasmine!” she said, trying for warmth but landing somewhere between startled and guarded.
“I brought something for you.”
The bundle unfurled in Laura’s hands—a hand-stitched quilt, pale blue and lavender with small floral details. Not store-bought. Not outsourced. The kind of softness that required intention.
“It’s beautiful,” Laura said, her voice thinning under the weight of unfamiliar generosity. “Thank you.”
“I thought it might brighten the guest room,” Jasmine replied with an almost-too-quick smile. “Or… wherever you feel it belongs.”
I stayed back, watching them. My mother had mastered the art of gentleness as diplomacy. But there was something in Laura’s stillness—an unspoken resistance to touch too tender.
Jasmine accepted tea and settled into the couch like she owned the fabric. “How are you, Laura?”
“Busy,” Laura replied, and I could hear the instinctive armor in her tone. “Hospital keeps me going.”
Jasmine nodded. “You remind me of myself. Always giving. Always moving. But don’t forget to come up for air.”
Laura’s polite smile barely held. I noticed the twitch in her jaw, the way her fingers tugged at her sleeve. She wasn’t used to kindness with no transaction attached.
“How’s your family in Kentucky?” Jasmine asked, too lightly.
Laura stiffened. “We don’t talk much anymore.”
Jasmine paused—but didn’t pry. She turned to me. “And have you talked to your father? How is it going between the two of you?”
I tensed. “The same. Business first. Always.”
“He means well.”
“He controls well.”
She shot me a glance that was both disapproving and unsurprised. “He’s not perfect, but neither are you. Extend him grace, David. It’s cheaper than resentment.”
—
After she left, Laura sat on the couch with the quilt folded in her lap, tracing the stitching like it might reveal a secret.
“She’s nice,” she said quietly.
“She always meant to be.”
“She reminds me of my dad.”
That caught me off guard. “Your dad?”
Laura didn’t look at me. “Before Alex got sick, he used to listen when I played piano. He’d laugh, ask for another song. But afterward…” Her voice thinned. “I became the assistant. The stand-in parent. The leftover.”
Her fingers curled around the quilt. I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything.
But I watched her.
And for the first time, I wondered if loving Laura meant learning how to carry her loneliness too. Not just my own.
—
Later that night, my phone lit up with a name I’d never been able to ignore.
Andrew.
“David,” came my father’s voice—sharp, clipped, imperious. “You’ll attend the gala next weekend. With Laura.”
I didn’t move. Just stared at the backsplash tiles like they could absorb the weight of my silence.
“I’m not sure we’ll make it,” I said finally, my voice low.
“You’ll make it,” he replied, like it was already settled. “The board is jittery with Michael gone. We need optics—stability, unity. That starts with you. And your wife.”
Michael.
Even in prison, his name could hollow out my chest.
I ended the call before the bile in my throat made it into words. I gripped the edge of the counter, grounding myself in cold quartz and old frustration.
When I turned, Laura was standing in the doorway. Barefoot. Quiet.
“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice careful.
I nodded. “Just my father.”
She didn’t push. She never did. We were both too fluent in silence to ask for more.
Later, in bed, I stared at the ceiling while her breathing slowed beside me.
He’s not perfect, Jasmine had said. But neither are you, David.
The words replayed on a loop, quieter each time—but no less true.
And maybe that was the point.
If this marriage had any chance of surviving, I’d have to stop blaming the men who came before me.
And start dealing with the one staring back in the mirror.
- Writer
