My Pervert Father-in-Law

My father-in-law is a pervert.

For six years of marriage, I believed he was a quiet, decent man.

Then I saw him holding my missing nightgown.

He gave me a lewd, panicked smile.

A dark stain was clearly visible on the fabric.

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In my daze, a pair of rough hands slid around my waist, moving upward.

Thinking it was my husband, I turned to embrace him, but the hands grew bolder.

Something felt wrong. My husband would have kissed me first.

That thought jolted me awake. My father-in-law’s leering face loomed over me.

"Ah—"

I shot up, gasping for air.

It was just a dream.

I looked around. I was at my parents’ house.

Relief washed over me, followed by self-disgust and embarrassment.

How could I have such a dream? It was all his fault.

My mind drifted back to earlier that evening.

I had returned home exhausted from work.

Dinner was already on the table, steaming hot. The meals had improved lately. My father-in-law claimed he learned new recipes online.

My son Benjamin was watching TV on the sofa.

Everything seemed peaceful and perfect.

I asked Benjamin casually, "Where’s Grandpa?"

He pointed to the balcony. "Grandpa is doing laundry."

I nodded and headed to the balcony to collect some clothes.

My father-in-law was bent over a large basin. He turned when he heard me.

In his hands was a familiar piece of clothing.

It was my missing nightgown.

But now, it was not only in his grasp—it was stained with something suspicious.

I recalled a recent news story my coworkers had discussed, about a father-in-law forcing himself on his daughter-in-law.

Something inside me snapped. Blood rushed to my head.

He gave me a nervous, lecherous smile. "Mia, you're back. Dinner is ready on the table. Go ahead and eat. I’ll join you after I finish the laundry."

Noticing my stare, his smile faded. He grew flustered. "I noticed the washing machine doesn’t clean light-colored clothes well. I thought I’d handwash them for you."

As he spoke, he shoved the nightgown into the basin, hiding it from view.

Humiliation and rage burned inside me. My face flushed. I wanted to scream at him, call him a shameless old man for stealing my nightgown and doing unspeakable things.

But I’ve always been timid. At thirty, I’ve never raised my voice at anyone. The words stuck in my throat.

I stammered uselessly before storming back to the living room, colliding with my husband as he walked in.

"What’s going on? Why are you so frantic?" he grumbled.

My pent-up anger and hurt erupted. "Don’t you dare shout at me!"

We began arguing, our voices rising.

My father-in-law rushed over, trying to intervene. I shot him a glare, fueling my fury further.

If I couldn’t confront him, I could take it out on his son.