I made my dad a Facebook yesterday and explained how everything worked. Today I saw his Facebook status ‘my wife’. I didn’t get it so I called him and asked what he meant, and he said.

“It’s for your mother,” he told me in that matter-of-fact voice he used whenever he was saying something deeply personal but didn’t want it to sound that way. “People keep sending me friend requests. I thought I should make it clear who I am committed to.”

I sat there holding the phone, staring at the wall. My mom had passed away a little over a year ago. He’d barely spoken about her since the funeral, and now here he was putting “my wife” out there like she was still in the next room making chai.

“Baba,” I said softly, “you know Facebook has a relationship status option, right? You can put widower there.”

“I don’t like that word,” he said. “It makes it sound like everything is gone. She is not gone. She is still my wife. Just… on the other side of the wall.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I told him I’d stop by that evening to check his settings and make sure strangers weren’t bothering him. He said, “Bring those little coconut biscuits,” as if we were just talking about tea snacks and not grief.

When I got to his place, the house smelled faintly of sandalwood and turmeric. His “for Facebook” notebook was already on the table, open to a page where he’d written “friends list,” “notifications,” and “privacy.” He handed me the laptop like it was a sacred object.

“Look,” he said, clicking clumsily through messages. “This woman Noor sent me a poem. She says she is a widow too. She says we can keep each other company.”

I scanned the messages. The language was a little too perfect, like it had been copied from somewhere. “Did you reply?” I asked.

“I wrote ‘thank you’ but I didn’t send it,” he said. “You told me not to trust people too quickly. She could be a nice person. Or she could be like those people on the news who ask for money for hospital bills that don’t exist.”

I showed him how to block and report. He was surprisingly quick to agree. “Better to be cautious,” he said, sipping his tea.

Over the next week, I noticed him posting more. Photos of his garden. Old pictures of my mom with her bright yellow dupatta. A quote about kindness. Always signed with a tulip emoji.

Then one day, I saw a photo he’d posted of our front porch with the caption: “For anyone in the neighborhood who needs to talk, my door is open after 5 pm.”

My first reaction was panic. “Baba, you can’t just invite the whole internet to our porch,” I told him over the phone.

“It’s not the whole internet,” he said, laughing. “It’s the community group. I want people to know they can come if they’re lonely. Not everyone has someone to talk to.”

I worried, but I didn’t stop him. And surprisingly, nothing bad happened. In fact, a few neighbors started dropping by. An older man from two streets over brought him mangoes. A young mom came by to ask about tomato plants.

Then one evening, when I stopped in, there was a woman sitting on the porch with him. She looked about his age, maybe a little younger. She had a walking cane leaning against her chair and a bag of samosas between them.

“This is Pilar,” my dad said. “She lives two doors down. Her landlord is selling her place. She has to move.”

We talked for a while, and I realized she wasn’t a stranger at all—she’d been living there for years, just quietly. When I left that night, I felt oddly relieved that my dad was meeting people in real life and not just online.

Two days later, though, I saw a new post from him that made my stomach drop. A photo of a bank transfer receipt. $2,000. The caption read: “Helping a friend in need. Always pay it forward.”

I called him instantly. “Baba, what is this?!”

“It’s for Pilar,” he said calmly. “She needs to pay a deposit for her new apartment. She promised to pay me back when she can. I posted it so the neighbors who also wanted to help could see I already contributed.”

“Do you have anything in writing?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. He showed me a page from his “for Facebook” notebook with both their signatures. I still didn’t love it, but it was better than nothing.

As it turned out, Pilar was genuine. Within two months, she’d repaid every cent. She even brought him a huge homemade flan as thanks. My dad posted a photo of it with the caption, “Trust is sweeter than dessert—but dessert is still very good.”

I started realizing something. My dad was… good at this. He was cautious but still open-hearted. People started calling him “Uncle Moin” in the neighborhood group. He started giving little tutorials at the library on “How Not to Get Scammed on Facebook.”

Then came the twist I didn’t see coming. One evening, my aunt Reema called me. “Do you know your father is chatting with a woman named Rukmini? She says she knew your mother in college. She’s been sending him old photos.”

I hadn’t heard of her, but when I asked my dad, his face lit up. “She was your mother’s roommate. She moved to Canada after marriage. She found me after seeing my post about the mustard sari.”

I was suspicious until we met her in person. She brought a tin box filled with photos I’d never seen—my mom laughing on a beach, holding a kite, sitting in a library with her hair in a braid. The joy on my dad’s face was something I hadn’t seen since before we lost her.

Over time, Rukmini became a regular visitor. Not a replacement for my mom—my dad made that clear—but a link to the past he treasured.

Months passed. My dad’s Facebook became a hub of positivity. He posted about local events, shared gardening tips, and gently educated people on online safety. The same platform I’d feared would hurt him was actually helping him heal.

One day, the community center invited him to give a talk: “Facebook for Beginners—Staying Safe and Staying Social.” He showed up in his green sweater and used his “for Facebook” notebook as a prop. People laughed, learned, and left saying they’d “never trust anyone with too many sunset pictures.”

He even taught them his motto: “Block, report, and then make tea.”

The most rewarding moment came when an elderly couple approached him after the talk. They said they’d almost fallen for a scam but remembered his advice. They blocked the scammer and lost nothing. My dad smiled like he’d won a gold medal.

Now, whenever I see his status updates—whether it’s “my wife” or “basil harvest today”—I don’t feel fear. I feel pride. He’s proof that you can be open-hearted and cautious at the same time.

And here’s what I learned: We can’t lock up the people we love just to keep them safe. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is sit beside them, teach them the rules, and trust them to walk their own path—online or otherwise.

If this story touched you, please like and share it. You never know who might need a reminder that kindness and caution can live in the same heart.