Joke of the Day: Mom and Uncle David

Ouadie Rhabbouron

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Sad reality
(13/14)

A silence fell between the girls and the men on the phone. The man suddenly said, “Pool? What pool? Is this 01.99.74.12.33?”

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Time relaxes a bit, revealing the mysterious. Now the man is home so he can be part of his family. His daughter answers the phone and says her mother is with Uncle David. But Uncle David was never there. So the man is clever, his wife betrayed him. However, history turns out differently.

A female with her wife

A man was engaged to be on the same frequency as your wife, and she was the one being transmitted. The latter wasn’t home. He then reached for the phone and dialed a number to meet his wife. After a few seconds, someone answered. It was a little girl. The father asked him, “Hi honey, it’s my dad calling… Can you tell me mom?” At that moment, something he hadn’t expected appeared before him. She told him, “I can’t, she’s upstairs in her room with Uncle David.”

Who is Uncle David?

A sudden silence fell between the man and the girl. In fact, there had never been an Uncle David in his family. He didn’t want to reveal anyone in his circle who had that name. So the man wondered who the famous David was and why his wife was warning him. The man said to the girls, “But my dear, you don’t have an Uncle David.” To which she replied, “Yes, yes, he’s in the room with Mom!” So the man came up with an idea on how to find out if his partner had been cheated on. He explained to the girl what she needed to know.

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“I married a woman thirty years older than me—despite my family’s strong objections. But on our wedding night, I uncovered a secret that changed everything. My name is Arjun Mehra. I’m twenty years old, about 180 cm tall, and currently in my second year at one of New Delhi’s top universities. Until recently, my life was simple—classes, exams, and future plans. That all changed the day I met Kavita Rao. She was sixty—graceful, composed, and impossible to ignore. Once the owner of a successful chain of luxury restaurants in Mumbai, she had stepped away from business and lived a quiet, private life. We met at a charity event in Gurugram. While others tried to stand out with loud conversations and laughter, Kavita remained calm and reserved. Her silver hair reflected the light, and her presence alone drew attention without effort. A few days later, she invited me to her mansion in South Delhi for tea. What I expected to be a short, polite visit turned into hours of meaningful conversation. She spoke openly about her life—early success, a marriage that ended without conflict, and a loneliness that lingered despite her achievements. She had everything—wealth, status, respect—except someone to truly share it with. Somewhere in those conversations, I realized I cared deeply for her. Not because of what she owned, but because she understood life in a way most people my age didn’t. Three months later, during a rainy evening, I told her I wanted to spend my life with her—no matter the age difference. The backlash was immediate. My family accused me of being after her money. My father called it disgraceful. My mother cried for days. Friends whispered behind my back. Eventually, I chose to walk away from all of them. We got married at her villa, with only a few of her close business associates present. I was the youngest person in the room—and I could feel every judgmental glance. That night, alone together as husband and wife, the atmosphere felt heavy and quiet. Kavita sat beside me and handed me a thick folder. Inside were documents—properties in Mumbai, ownership papers, and keys to a luxury car. I was overwhelmed. “I don’t want any of this,” I told her. “That’s not why I married you.” She studied me carefully before speaking, her tone calm but firm. “Arjun, you need to understand something,” she said. “Loneliness isn’t the only reason I chose you. I need someone to carry on what I’ve built.” Her words unsettled me. She explained that she had no children, and her wealth—worth hundreds of crores—would otherwise fall into the hands of distant relatives waiting for their chance. “I want it to go to you,” she said quietly. “But there’s one condition.” The room suddenly felt smaller. My voice tightened as I asked, “What condition?” She held my gaze steadily… and began to explain.