The Other Woman

by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The other woman
who knew my father
saved all the letters
he'd ever written her
inside a trunk, and
now it's been fifty
years since she loved
him, even before I
was born when she
used to live beside
the Thames river.
One day she and my
mother wore sarees
for him as if it were
his birthday and he
thought she looked
like a jewel standing
by the lake water.
His passions were
opera and Brahms,
the music he shared
with her, and when
my mother died he
married her. My
stepbrother and
stepsister seldom
visit, and years ago
they used to be my
childhood friends.
Above the fireplace
is my stepmother's
picture. I couldn't
help but notice how
much my mother
looked like her. She
could've been her
sister.