Confession: I Slept With My Best Friend’s Father

I am 21. I live in Mumbai. I’ve never said this aloud not to my friends, not even in my diary but it’s eating me up.

When I was 19, I slept with my best friend’s father.

It wasn’t planned. He dropped us home after a party. She went upstairs, half-drunk, while I stayed back to “help clean up.” One thing led to another; the brush of his hand on mine, the long stare, the silence in that car. By the time I went upstairs, it had already happened. My best friend was snoring in her room while I sat in the bathroom, shaking, smelling of his cologne.

It didn’t stop there. For almost a year, I would find excuses to visit her house when she wasn’t around. He would message me at odd hours, and I would respond. Sometimes I felt disgusted. Other times, I felt powerful like I had a secret that made me untouchable. He was twice my age, married, with a daughter who trusted me like a sister. I betrayed her every single time.

I never told her. I don’t think I ever will. She still calls me her closest friend. She shares her secrets, her heartbreaks, her dreams. Sometimes when we’re sitting together, and she mentions her father casually like “Papa is watching TV” I feel my stomach twist. I laugh, nod, and pretend like nothing happened, while flashes of his hands on me burn at the back of my brain.

The truth? I don’t know if I regret it. That’s the part that shocks even me. I think about him even now. I stalk his WhatsApp to see when he’s online. And sometimes when I’m with someone else, I remember him and feel things I wish I didn’t.

I am not writing this to be forgiven. I am writing this because carrying it alone feels heavier than my own body. Maybe if strangers read it, the weight will lift a little.

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