The Birthday Gift My Father-in-Law Gave Me

At the company where I work, they give us the day off when it’s our birthday. Last year, on the day I turned thirty-nine, Martín was away on business. He wasn’t due back until the afternoon, and we had arranged to go out to dinner with the kids to celebrate.

I got up early, got the children ready, and sent them off to school. When I closed the door behind them, the apartment fell into a silence that felt different, charged. I had the whole morning to myself. And, taking advantage of the fact that Martín wasn’t there, I had arranged to “have lunch” with someone who wasn’t him.

But the morning dragged on. I made myself a coffee, let it go cold, turned on the radio and switched it off two minutes later. There was a restlessness in my body that the coffee wouldn’t calm, an expectation that raised goosebumps on my skin for no clear reason. I paced from the kitchen to the living room as if I were waiting for something, even though my date wasn’t until noon.

I took a long shower, longer than necessary, letting the hot water run down my back while I thought about what I was going to wear. Then I tried on three different outfits and rejected them all. I felt strange, like a girl before her first meeting, and at thirty-nine that made me laugh and feel a little dizzy at the same time. In the end I stayed in my robe, barefoot, my hair still damp and the bed unmade behind me.

I sat down at the vanity and put on just a little makeup, enough to feel put together without making the effort obvious. As I ran the eyeliner over my lids, I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and asked myself the question I’d been avoiding all week: Do I really want to do this? I didn’t answer. I put the eyeliner away and lowered the blinds halfway, letting in a warm light that gilded the whole room.

At nine-thirty someone knocked on the door.

I opened it without thinking, sure it was the doorman or a package. Standing in front of me was my father-in-law.

He didn’t say anything at first. He hugged me, came inside, and as soon as the door closed behind us we were kissing. His hands slid down my back until he was squeezing my ass, with that firmness I knew by heart. He knew I’d be alone all morning, but he hadn’t told me he was coming. It was a surprise, and one of the good kind: my first birthday present was going to be him.

For him to be the one walking through that door and not the other one, I thought, maybe that was what I’d been waiting for all morning.

He put a wrapped box into my hands.

—Go to the bedroom, put it on, and come back —he said, with a sideways smile.

He settled onto the sofa as if he were in his own home. Obediently, I went to the bedroom and opened the package. Inside was a turquoise babydoll, in the finest silk, with lace that turned sheer at the slightest movement. It was beautiful. It was expensive, the kind of thing you don’t buy without thinking of someone. I felt flattered in a way that made me a little ashamed.

I stripped quickly and put it on. When I looked at myself in the wardrobe mirror, I hardly recognized myself. The turquoise against my skin, the fabric falling exactly where it should, the thong of the set just barely outlining me. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made to measure my body. I felt beautiful. I felt desired before anyone had even touched me.

I came out barefoot into the living room. My father-in-law looked up and was silent a second too long.

—You look incredible —he said at last, and his voice came out rougher than he would have liked.

He stood up and we kissed again, this time without hurry, savoring it. I was overflowing with a strange happiness, guilty and complete at the same time. I had in my house the man who made me feel best, and I knew we were going to do it in my own bed, the bed I shared with his son. That detail always gave me a wicked thrill I never dared confess out loud.

He pulled away, went to Martín’s bar cabinet, and poured himself a whiskey over ice. He came back to the sofa, swirled the glass so the cubes clinked, and asked me to put on some music.

My father-in-law is younger than anyone would imagine. Barely fifty-two, his hair still dark, his hands big and sure. I put on what he likes: eighties rock, in English, those guitars he hummed along to without even noticing. I sat down beside him and we stayed like that for a while, kissing slowly, my fingers at the nape of his neck, his roaming my thighs under the silk.

—Stand up —he asked softly—. I want to see how it fits you properly.

I stood in front of him. I don’t know where it came from, but I danced for him a little, to the beat of the music, turning so he could see my back, the fabric lifting just a little with every movement. He watched me with a concentration that turned me on more than any caress. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I held out my hand to him. He took it, left his sweating glass on the table, and let me lead him to the bedroom.

***

I sat on the edge of the bed. I unbuckled his belt, pulled down his trousers and boxer shorts in one tug. He stood bare in front of me, hard and thick, that part of him that drove me a little crazy every single time. I knelt on the rug and started sucking him slowly, lifting my eyes to look into his. I loved seeing his face, seeing how he clenched his jaw and how his eyelids narrowed at the pleasure I was giving him.

—Stop —he said after a while, tugging gently at my hair—. Get up.

I obeyed, as always. With a calm that made me nervous, he arranged me on all fours at the edge of the bed. I was still wearing the babydoll and the silk falling over my back made me feel even more exposed, even more his. He pulled the thong to the side and, instead of going straight where I expected, he started wetting me with saliva further back, in a place he only reached after a good while. It surprised me. But I understood right away that that was the gift, a different way of celebrating me.

He knelt behind me and licked me without rushing. Feeling his tongue exploring there, opening me up little by little, set me on fire. I was already burning, trembling against the sheets, biting the back of my hand so I wouldn’t scream. By the time he got up and started pushing in, I was ready, surrendered, with not a single defense left standing.

He entered slowly and even so I felt him filling me completely. There was a sting at first, then an enormous pleasure that climbed up my back. In just a few thrusts he had all of me. I could feel his thighs pressed against my ass, his whole body against mine, and for a moment I didn’t know where I ended and he began.

He stayed still. A minute, maybe more. I was moaning softly, undone, waiting. Then I started moving on my own, forward and back, rubbing my ass against his belly, setting the rhythm I wanted. He let me do it for a while. Then he grabbed my waist with both hands and, without warning, started pounding into me with a violence that cut off my breath.

I buried my face in the sheets that smelled like Martín and for an instant that mix —my husband’s scent in the bed, his father’s body inside me— sent a shiver through me I don’t know if it was guilt or pleasure. Then I stopped thinking. There was only the heat, the wet sound of our bodies colliding, and the babydoll silk sliding down my back with every thrust.

I pushed myself up a little, braced on my hands, and he took advantage of it to yank my hair and arch me back against his chest. I felt his breath on my nape, his beard scraping my shoulder, his teeth biting me right where the neck turns into the collarbone. I dug my nails into his forearms and begged him not to stop, even though neither of us was anywhere near wanting to stop.

He whispered things in my ear as he moved. That I was his little girl, his treasure, his candy. And in the same sentence, with the same voice, that I was his whore, his daughter-in-law, his slut. Tenderness and roughness mixed together, all at once, while he made me burn. I don’t know what turned me on more, what he was doing or what he was saying.

—You’re mine —he kept repeating—. My daughter-in-law, mine.

I answered yes to everything, without thinking, because in that moment it was true.

***

For the first time, we came together. I felt him convulse at the same time I was coming apart beneath him, both of us collapsing onto the bed, his weight crushing me into the mattress, my breath coming in ragged bursts against the pillow. We stayed like that for a long while, without separating, listening to the music still playing in the living room as if nothing had happened.

And then, with his mouth still pressed to my nape, he said it.

—I love you.

It was the first time. The first and the only time, to this day. He never said it again and I never asked him to. It wasn’t necessary. Hearing it once was enough, there in my bed, on my birthday morning.

Afterward he dressed in silence, finished the watered-down whiskey in one swallow, and kissed my forehead before leaving, as if it were a secret the two of us knew how to keep. The babydoll box was left open on the dresser. My noon date texted me to cancel and I didn’t even answer. I didn’t need anyone else.

That afternoon, when Martín came back from the trip and we went out to dinner with the kids, his father was seated at the table across from me, toasting me with a glass of wine and a calm smile. No one suspected a thing. Under the table, while everyone was singing, his foot brushed mine once. Just for a second. It was my second gift of the day, and the only one I was able to keep secret forever.