Regret - Maria Robinson

You never really wanted to know about his second wife. You were the first and you thought, the only. His Ph.D scientist mother had welcomed you into the family with such humility that you considered her a saint. His research dentist father had taken pictures of you in his rose garden with his new camera. You had all gone cross-country skiing on a blinding Buffalo winter day and then come home to Joan's German hot chocolate. You never wanted to live without these rarefied, if generous parents-in-law. Your parents had been hard and tight, very successful but without the intellectual curiosity that had, at least initially, drawn you to the son of this group.

Then you found out that all of the parent's scientific exploration had been transposed into their son as human experimentation. You were girlfriend, then fiance then just as suddenly, an uninteresting specimen for further observation. You became the first of what was yet to be five wives, all romanced, examined and discarded. You were grateful that you had acceded to his parents' wish for immediate grandchildren. And since you lived on to have a fruitful life, you were grateful not to have any regret concerning the relationship.