It was easier to pretend I was someone else.It felt goodto pretend I was someone else.
She was interested, and I was desperate. Desperate to be touched. To be desired. When she invited me to her place, it’s like my body wasn’t my own. My body followed her around the corner, into her building, up the stairs, and into her bed. My body kissed her and touched her, then slipped inside her. And when my body came, my soul died. I bolted out of her apartment while she was in the bathroom. I didn’t leave a note or call out a goodbye. And I didn’t even feel bad about it. Not in that moment, at least. I was drowning in guilt because I’d touched a woman who wasn’t my wife.
I cried the entire twenty blocks back to my parents’ apartment. The lights were off, and when I used my cell phone to guide a path, Bea was peacefully resting on my mother’s chest in the living room. Mom raised a hand and whispered for me to sleep while I could.
But I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I couldn’t cry anymore either; I’d used up every last tear.
I was numb.
I hated myself.
After scrubbing my skin raw in the shower, I googled “Am I a piece of shit for having sex after my wife died?” and found a Reddit forum full of stories from people with similar experiences. I sifted through multiple threads, finally landing on a support group of other widowers in my area. Three men—Benji, Raymond, and Zion—added me to their group chat, and that weekend, I left Bea with my parents again and met them for drinks.
None of them judged me. In fact, they all had similar experiences and had worked through or were working through the same kind of guilt. At the time, Raymond, the oldest of the crew, had been without his first wife for twenty years. Benji’s wife had died five years before, and Zion’s wife had passed away only six months before Daisy.
Between the forums and the support of my three new friends, I realized I wasn’t a despicable asshole after all. My feelings and burning desire for sexual intimacy were normal and not at all uncommon. “Widow’s Fire,” it’s called. Or, widower, in my case.
And when I’d finally put a name to it, I didn’t feel so alone.
I still felt like shit, but at least I wasn’t lonely shit.
“There was no social media back then,” Raymond told us one night, “and I’d been through so much religious trauma regarding sex, that it took me over a decade before I opened up to anyone about how I’d been hiring sex workers.”
Benji found himself in bed with his wife’s identical twin sister the night of her funeral. “We were both grieving and so fucked up. I thought having sex with her twin would make me feel connected to her, but it only ruined my relationship with my in-laws. We don’t even talk anymore.”
Zion had been keeping his relationship with a man a secret from everyone he knew, including his kids, for fear of being judged for moving on so soon. “I hate that phrase. Moving on. I’m not forgetting my goddamn wife. I’m movingforward,” he’d said.He was grappling with grief over his wife as well as basking in the joy his new companionship brought him. But the fact that Zion had unexpectedly found someone so quickly freaked him out.
It’s been nearly five years since that night, and our text chain game is strong. We keep in touch nearly every day, and they visit the camp for a few days every summer.
For me, sex after Daisy was a means of distraction. I wasn’t sleeping with a different woman every week or anything even close to that. I was running a business on top of taking care of my infant daughter. Free time was rare. But on nights when Jack and Natalie or my parents took care of Bea, I would seek solace in another warm body.
Then I’d come home and scrub their scent from my skin before texting the group chat about how guilty I felt. They’d remind me that I wasn’t a terrible person, that fulfilling a basic human need didn’t mean I loved Daisy any less.
About six months after her death, I finally sought a therapist. I worked through a lot of shit and stopped hooking up for an entire year. Then came Sarah. We met on an app, and she, too, had lost her spouse. We casually dated and eventually slept together. It was nice to have a confidant who understood what I was going through. She didn’t judge me for crying after sex, and I took no offense when she accidentally called me by her husband’s name. We had an understanding, and it worked well.
I never introduced her to Bea. I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else, but I wasn’t ready for a commitment, and I’d been up-front about that from the beginning.
Eventually, though, she pushed for more. That’s when I freaked out. I didn’t want another woman in Bea’s life. Sarah knew some of the most intimate and personal things about me, but the thought of her meeting my kid and holding or kissing her didn’t sit right. She was patient and understanding about it in thebeginning, but after a few months, when my position hadn’t changed, we mutually called things off.
Sometimes people come into our lives for a reason or a season, and when a need has been met, their work is done. Sarah showed me that joy and grief can exist together. That I don’t have to pick one over the other. We don’t talk anymore, but I’ll always be grateful to her.
While Daisy’s death was sudden, we’d had hypothetical conversations about what we’d want for each other, should one of us die. We both agreed to find love again. I felt it was imperative that Daisy find someone to share the rest of her life with, someone she could depend on and raise Bea with. I wouldn’t want her to parent alone. She expressed the same desire for me.
But guilt threads its way into my consciousness, like thorns on a vine, every time I peruse the dating apps.
Maybe one day I’ll open my heart up to a woman who’s worthy of sharing it with Bea and me. But that day is not today.
11
Asher
The family fieldgames are possibly my favorite part of summer camp. Every day, we organize a game, from capture the flag to water balloon races to the good ole classic egg and spoon race. Today’s game is a clothing relay race. Each team gets a suitcase filled with oversized clothes and accessories. Half the team waits on the other side of the field. When the whistle blows, the first player on each team has to dress in the attire as quickly as possible, race across the field, then undress. The next player in line dresses and runs across the field. And so it goes. The first team to have all their players dress and undress is the winner.
I try to participate in the games at least once a week. Today is that day. But once the teams have gathered, I realize we’re down a player.
Hands on my hips, I scan the area, and it doesn’t take long before I spot the perfect teammate.
Jogging up to her, I say, “Hey, Doc, we need you.”
