Her Son, Always
Copyright© 2026 by The Ignored Sentinel
Chapter 1
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Karthik, an 18-year-old from Mumbai, moves to Canada for studies, leaving behind a distant father and a close but evolving bond with his mother, Vidya. Over time, their relationship deepens through calls and emotional support, especially after her divorce. As Karthik grows independent, he forms a connection with Latha, an older student.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Incest Mother Indian Male Indian Female
I folded the last set of clothes and placed it on the bed. The wrinkles didn’t really matter. My suitcase lay open, half-filled with clothes and a few books. The ceiling fan hummed above me in the same room that had been mine for as long as I could remember. But that was about to change. I was moving to Canada for my honors degree in computer science.
My name is Karthik. I’m 18—tall but skinny. I’m a reserved person, but I’ve always excelled academically. Leaving my room feels strange; there’s a deep sense of attachment, but I know it’s time to move on. I grew up and went to school in Mumbai, raised mostly by working parents. There are three people in my family: my dad, Prasad (42); my mom, Vidya (38); and me.
My dad is a senior executive in a multinational company. He travels constantly. Most of the time, he stays in Singapore for about fifteen days, then comes back to India briefly before leaving again. He’s always busy. I can’t remember a single day when he wasn’t working, even when he was at home. He’s often distant, and I’ve never been close to him.
My mom, on the other hand, is an HR executive at a large company in Mumbai. She’s beautiful, a bit chubby, and similar to the Bollywood actress Vidya Balan, just like her first name. My mom and I share a better relationship. She has always encouraged me to aim higher, but sometimes I feel she places too many expectations on me.
We didn’t have any extended family reaching out to us. My parents married against their families’ wishes. They said it was for love, but maybe they were too young. As I grew up, I watched that love slowly fade. I grew up in a high-income house but without many family connections.
I ended up finding happiness in movies—mainly superheroes—and video games. They offered an escape, and my room was covered with posters and memorabilia. My father never really cared. But my mother told me to focus on my grades too. When I got into the University of Toronto, she was overjoyed.
I applied to a university in Canada for my bachelor’s studies mainly because of my mother’s insistence. As I zipped up my suitcase after packing the remaining clothes, I paused for a moment and looked around my room. It had been my space—my refuge—for years.
As I reflected, there was a soft knock on my bedroom door. I knew it was my mom before I even turned around.
“Ma,” I replied.
She opened the door slowly and stepped inside. She looked around the room, and finally her eyes landed on my suitcase. Dad wasn’t home. He promised to call later, like always.
For a moment, she just stood there, quiet. Then she walked close. Her expression was kinder than usual. Normally, she was all about things to do and what needed to happen next. But today? She seemed different. Gentler. Almost uncertain.
“Almost done?” she asked, looking at the suitcase.
I nodded. “Yeah ... just finished.”
She stepped closer and adjusted my jacket that I had kept over the suitcase. It was like she needed something to do with her hands. Then she looked at me. “You’ve packed everything?” she asked.
“I think so,” I replied calmly.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good,” she said warmly.
In that moment, I felt something different from her. Her expression changed. Before I could respond, she had tears filling her eyes. That surprised me. I had rarely seen her this way—so open, so candid.
“Kittu...” she said, her voice shaking. That was when she called me.
I stepped closer. “Ma, what happened?”
She didn’t answer; instead, she pulled me into a tight hug. For a moment, I froze. We weren’t the kind of family that hugged much. But then I wrapped my arms around her. She pressed herself onto me, like she didn’t want to let go. I felt her trembling.
“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered.
I had always viewed her as strong, composed, and maybe even demanding. But now, she was just my mother—emotional, vulnerable, and deeply connected to me. Her big breasts pressed against my lean frame. I placed my hands on her spine, unsure of where to go. Then she pulled me closer.
I breathed in her scent—jasmine mixed with something floral. It was the first time I held her like this. I felt genuine love—and something else too. Standing in my room, I realized I was going to miss her too.
“I’ll be fine, Ma,” I replied, though my voice wavered.
She pulled back a bit, her hands resting on my shoulders. She looked at me, trying to memorize every detail of my face. “You’ll take care of yourself, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She smiled, but I saw the struggle in her eyes—pride and worry. With one last hug, she whispered, “I love you. Always remember that.”
“I love you too,” I whispered back.
We stepped out of the room together. Mom carried my backpack while I rolled the large suitcase. We walked side by side. Mom insisted on driving me to the airport. The ride felt normal at first. Just another day. But there was a heavy silence between us.
“Your dad still hasn’t called,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice.
I chuckled softly. “He said he would.”
“Not surprised. At least today of all days...” She shook her head and looked at me. “Maybe he’ll call when you’re boarding,” she suggested.
“Or after I land,” I shot back dryly.
She smiled. “Yeah, that sounds more like him.”
We fell into the normal chatter of light complaints about him. Nothing too awful. Just the usual frustration. It felt good. We were on the same side, a couple in annoyance rather than the usual mother-son dynamic. We joked, shared random memories, and talked about things we hadn’t touched on in ages.
An hour’s drive later, we reached the airport. She parked the car. We spent the last half hour together till it was my time for boarding.
As I stood up to go, she turned to face me. Her eyes softened. She leaned in and hugged me tightly—this time without hesitation. “Call me every day,” she said firmly, but there was a hint of vulnerability in her voice.
I smiled, trying to keep it light. “I’ll call whenever I get time.”
Her frown deepened. “Kittu...”
“I will, Ma,” I assured her quickly.
She nodded, not fully convinced yet accepting it.
I picked up my suitcase and walked to the gates. For a moment, I looked back and smiled at her. “I’ll miss you,” I mouthed.
“I’ll miss you too,” she replied.
Then, before I could overthink it, I turned and walked straight to the security gates. I didn’t look back again, as I knew leaving her would be even harder.
Three months in my life became busy in Canada. University life was chaotic from the get-go. Lectures, assignments, deadlines—it all merged together. I barely had a moment to think, let alone miss home. I made a few friends, mostly other students from India.
I shared a small apartment with a couple of them. It wasn’t like my family house in India, but it worked. We have the same food preferences. I also found a part-time job to help with everyday expenses. Between classes and work, my days were packed.
Prasad, my father, called just once since I arrived. It wasn’t a real conversation. Just a quick check-in. But my mom called me regularly. Almost every day. Most of the time, I couldn’t answer. I’d just texted her—busy—will call later—later.
We spoke on the weekends, catching up on everything that had happened during the week. In the middle of all the noise, I’d think about home and her. But I didn’t linger on those thoughts. Slowly, I settled into a routine.
By the end of my first year, things became easier. My grades were better than I expected. This brought a bit of breathing room. Not much, but enough to ease the constant rush. My dad called me even less, but I didn’t mind anymore. I didn’t have to depend on his money too after I got a scholarship.
I started talking to Mom more. Mostly on weekends. We talked every Saturday or every other weekend. Sometimes, we spoke on video calls; we glued our faces to the screen. Our conversations shifted over time. They felt less like mother-son talks and more like conversations between friends.
She’d ask about my life, classes, and friends. Sometimes, she’d nudge me about girls. I laughed it off when she teased me. I could tell she enjoyed it. When I asked about Dad, she would always try to avoid it or complain about how he was never around and how little they talked.
Things weren’t the same anymore between them. I listened and didn’t say much, but I understood. My absence at home only widened the gap between them.
When my second year started, I had more free time. That’s when I decided to join a gym. At first, it was just to fill my time. But soon, I got into it. I gained muscle and began to feel better in my own skin.
A few months later, I got a call from Mom. Her tone was different—serious. “Kittu, I need to tell you something.”
I straightened up. “Hello Ma, what happened?”
“I’ve filed for divorce,” she said quietly. “Your dad and I ... are getting a divorce.”
I paused. “What?” There was little shock in my voice. “Why?” I asked.
“Your dad...” She paused before continuing, “I can’t live with him anymore. We’ve agreed to part ways on mutual terms.”
Deep in my mind I had seen this coming, but actually hearing it made it unsettling. “Ma ... are you sure?” I said. “Can’t you try to work it out?” I asked, trying to see if there was any level of reconciliation between them.
She didn’t answer immediately. I heard her take a deep breath. Then she asked, “If I were your friend, Kittu ... would you want me to stay in a loveless marriage?”
Two years in Canada, I learned that people move on. That relationships end. Divorce wasn’t shocking here like it would have been back home in India. But this was my family. This was my mother. But I couldn’t deny that my parents’ relationship was strained for a long time now.
I have witnessed the burden it was on my mother, and I couldn’t bear to see her suffer any longer. As much as I wanted them to stay together, her happiness was what truly mattered.
I took a deep breath and said, “No. You deserve to be happy. If leaving Dad is what it takes, then I support you.”
“Thank you for understanding,” she replied.
“Do you want me to come to India?” I asked immediately.
“No,” she dismissed it quickly. “You focus on your studies.” Her voice was firm. “I will be alright.”
I didn’t push it. After the call ended, I stared at my phone. That night, I lay in bed. For the first time in a long time, sleep wouldn’t come.
I texted Dad. “Why?”
His reply came after a while. “Work in Singapore has increased. I can’t take care of things back home anymore.”
That was it. It felt incomplete. Something was left unsaid. I sensed both of them were hiding something—but I didn’t know how to ask. Or if I should. They were adults. Their choices were their own. I decided to just accept it.
While the divorce proceedings were going on, I called my mom every other day. Even though it was a mutually agreed divorce, my mom made a choice to hire a sharp lawyer. It was smart. She wanted what she deserved. In the end, she received a one-time alimony settlement. Plus, she kept the house.
I was an adult, so there was no need for my father to offer maintenance payments. I was fine with that. After the divorce, Dad sent me a message. Just three words: take care. Bye—nothing more. It felt cold, like a formal email. I didn’t reply. Instead, I called Mom.
“Ma, how are you?” I asked.
“I’m good,” she said. She sounded cheerful. Not just relieved. I could hear it in her voice. “Actually ... better than I’ve been in a long time.”
During the call, Mom mentioned a small party for her friends.
“To celebrate?” I asked, half-joking.
She laughed softly. “Something like that.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.