The silence of my house was usually my favorite part of the day.

I pulled my Mercedes SUV into the garage and watched the door roll down behind me. It sealed out the noise of the city and the stress of the firm. I turned off the engine. I sat there for a moment in the dark. My hands were still gripping the leather steering wheel.

I took a deep breath. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Everything was still in place. My hair was pulled back in a severe chignon that hadn’t moved an inch since my 7:00 AM meeting. My lipstick was still perfect. I looked like what I was. I was Cathy. I was the CFO of a mid-sized logistics firm. I was a woman who had her shit together.

I grabbed my briefcase and headed inside. The house was immaculate. I paid a cleaning service good money to keep it that way. I walked into the kitchen and set my bag on the marble island. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.

This was my sanctuary. Since the divorce three years ago I had curated this space to be exactly what I wanted. Quiet. Clean. Orderly.

I walked to the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle of white. I poured a glass and took a long sip. The cold liquid hit my stomach and I felt my shoulders drop about an inch.

I caught my reflection in the dark glass of the oven door.

I was 46 years old. I had fought tooth and nail for every accolade I had at work and I fought just as hard for the body I had now. I stood 5’6”. The scale this morning read 155 lbs. I wasn’t thin. I would never be thin. I was what my ex-husband used to call “plush,” but I preferred “statuesque.”

I smoothed my hands down the front of my pencil skirt. It was a size 10. It fit perfectly but it required infrastructure. Underneath the charcoal wool skirt and the cream silk blouse I was wearing a layer of architectural shapewear. Spanx held my stomach in. A heavy-duty bra hoisted my 36D breasts up high enough to look perky.

I looked good. I looked powerful. But I knew the truth. Being this powerful was exhausting. It was a constant battle against gravity, against mistakes, against losing control.

I took another sip of wine. I was just starting to relax when the peace was shattered.

The back door flew open and chaos followed.

“I swear to god Shelly if you don’t give it back I’m going to punch you in the throat,” a voice yelled.

“Try it and I’ll post that picture of you sleeping with your mouth open,” a second voice laughed.

My daughters were home.

Shelly and Kelly tumbled into the kitchen like a hurricane of noise and limbs. They were 16, enjoying the summer after their sophomore year of high school. They were identical twins but I could tell them apart instantly. It wasn’t just physical. It was the energy.

Shelly was the spark. Kelly was the flame.

They dropped their massive soccer bags on my pristine floor with a heavy thud.

“Hi Mom!” Kelly chirped. She was the sweet one. She was my angel.

“Hey Mom,” Shelly said. She flashed a grin that held too many teeth. She went straight for the fridge.

I stiffened, taking a calming drink of wine.

“Hello girls,” I said. My voice was calm. Controlled. “How was practice?”

“Hot,” Shelly said. She grabbed a jug of orange juice and drank straight from the carton.

“Shelly,” I chided gently. “Glass.”

She pulled the carton down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She smirked at me. She was my devil. She knew it bothered me, but she made it look charming.

“My bad,” she said.

I watched them. I couldn’t help it. They were magnificent. They were everything I used to be before life became a series of spreadsheets.

They had just come from a two-hour soccer practice in the July heat. They were covered in a sheen of sweat. Their faces were flushed pink.

And their bodies. My god.

They were 5’4”. They each weighed 115 pounds soaking wet. And that was all pure muscle and kinetic energy. They were wearing their practice uniforms. Tiny black Adidas shorts that were more like underwear than athletic gear. Tight white t-shirts that were soaked through with sweat.

Shelly leaned back against the counter. She kicked one leg up and started untying her cleats. Mud flaked off onto my floor.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “I am melting.”

She grabbed the hem of her white t-shirt. In one fluid motion she pulled it over her head and threw it on top of her soccer bag.

I took a sharp breath.

She was standing in my kitchen in just her shorts and a black sports bra.

“Shelly,” I said, though my protest lacked real heat. “We are in a kitchen. Not a locker room.”

“It’s just us Mom,” she said. She ran a hand through her damp hair. “God it feels good to get that off. I feel free.”

She looked at her sister. “Kel, take it off. You know you’re dying.”

Kelly hesitated. She looked at me. She was always looking for permission. I stared at her. I should have told them to go upstairs.

But I didn’t say anything. I just stared.

Kelly took my silence for approval. She peeled her shirt off too.

Now there were two of them.

I stood there in my $800 suit and scrutinized them. The contrast was stark.

They were perfect. Their stomachs were flat washboards of muscle. Unlike my soft white belly these girls were tan and hard. You could see the definition of their abs. Their skin was taut.

And their breasts. They didn’t have my heavy D cups. They were small B cups. But they sat high and proud on their chests. The tight sports bras compressed them slightly pushing them up. I could see the outline of their hard nipples through the lycra.

“You guys stink,” I said playfully.

“Coach Miller worked us into the ground,” Kelly said. She grabbed a water bottle. “She loves bringing you up, you know.”

I paused, my wine glass halfway to my mouth. “Coach Miller?”

The girls went to the same high school I did. Their coach and I played soccer together during our undergrada. I hadn’t spoken to her in the years since.

“Yeah,” Shelly said. “She loves to reminisce. She says you were a beast on the field.”

I smiled, a genuine memory breaking through my corporate armor. “I was center mid. I held the team together.”

“She said you held the team together off the field too,” Shelly said.

There was a tone in her voice. A subtle shift.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Shelly leaned back against the sink, spreading her legs slightly in that confident, masculine pose she favored.

“She was telling stories today while we were showering,” Shelly said. “About the victory parties. About the locker room after the State Championship.”

My stomach flipped. Not from nausea, but from a sudden jolt of adrenaline. I remembered those parties. I remembered the camaraderie. The adrenaline. The skin.

“Locker room talk,” I dismissed. “She’s exaggerating.”

“I don’t think so,” Shelly said. She looked me right in the eye. “She said you were ... uninhibited.”

“Shelly,” Kelly warned. “Don’t be gross. It’s Mom!”

“It’s not gross,” Shelly said. “It’s cool. She said Mom was a wild child.”

Shelly looked at me, her eyes drilling into mine.

“Is it true, Mom?” she asked. “Were you wild?”

My face went hot. I took a large gulp of wine. I didn’t answer. I didn’t verify it, but I didn’t deny it either. The memory of Sarah Miller’s hands on my waist in the showers of ‘96 flashed in my mind. How her strong hands found the inside of my thighs.

“That was a long time ago,” I said, my voice tight. “I’m a different person now.”

“Are you?” Shelly asked. She pushed off the sink and walked towards me. “Or are you just pretending?”

She looked at my hair. My blouse. My skirt. She smiled. It was a knowing smile.

“You look so uptight now,” she said.

“I look professional,” I said.

“You look like you’re wrapped in plastic,” she said. “Doesn’t all that shapewear hurt?”

My face went hotter. “It’s not shapewear. It’s structure.”

Shelly laughed. “Mom. Please. We do the laundry sometimes. We see the contraptions. It’s sad.”

She took a step toward me. She was in my personal space now.

“Coach Miller says you used to streak after a big win,” Shelly whispered. “Now look at you. Encased.”

She reached out. Before I could stop her she poked my hip. Right where the Spanx ended and my natural curves began.

“See?” she said. Not mocking, but observant. “You’re so soft under there. Why do you hide it? Why do you want to be so ... rigid?”

I swatted her hand away, but lightly. “Stop it.”

“I’m just saying,” Shelly said. She licked her lips. “You should change. Put on some sweats. Or just ... take it off. Like us. Like you used to.”

“I am dressed for my station in life,” I said.

“You seem ... stuck,” Shelly said.

The room went quiet.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Stuck,” she repeated. But she wasn’t attacking me. She was inviting me. “You look at us and it reminds you of when you were fun. When you experimented.”

She looked down at her own body. She ran her hands over her flat stomach. The sound of her skin rubbing against her palms was loud in the quiet kitchen.

“You miss being wild,” she said. “Don’t you? You miss the locker room.”

“I think you should go to your room,” I said. My voice was shaky, not angry.

“I think you look at our asses,” Shelly said.

My heart stopped.

“What?” I whispered.

“I see you,” Shelly said. Her eyes were dark, playful. “When we’re stretching. When we’re sunbathing. It reminds you of your teammates, doesn’t it?”

She turned around. She put her hands on the counter and bent over. She stuck her ass out. The fabric of her shorts stretched tight. I could see the precise outline of her thong underneath. I could see the roundness of her cheeks.

“You’re looking right now,” she said over her shoulder. “Admit it. You like it. You want to be back there.”

I was. I couldn’t help it. It was right there. It was perfect. And she was right. I didn’t hate it. I wanted it. I wanted to be part of that circle of careless physicality again.

“Shelly stop it,” Kelly said. But she was smiling.

I looked at Kelly. She was watching me watch her sister.

“Go shower,” I said. “Both of you. Before you stink up my kitchen.”

Shelly stood up. She turned around slowly. She was grinning.

“Okay Captain,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

She grabbed her bag. She walked past me. As she passed she brushed her shoulder against mine. She was damp and warm. She held my gaze for a second too long.

I know who you were, her eyes said. And I know you’re still in there.

Kelly grabbed her bag too. She looked at me. “She’s not wrong.”

“Just go,” I said softly.

They walked out of the kitchen. I watched them go. I watched their dirty blonde ponytails swish. I watched those tight little asses sashay down the hallway.

They turned the corner and headed up the stairs.

I was alone in the kitchen again.

I looked down at my outfit. The silk blouse. The wool skirt. Shelly was right. It felt like a cage.

I walked to the hallway mirror. I looked at myself again.

I looked controlled. But inside, I felt a crack forming.

I thought about the smell of Shelly’s sweat. I thought about Sarah Miller’s hands.

My nipples hardened against the inside of my heavy bra.

“What is wrong with you?” I whispered to my reflection.

But I knew.

I reached down and undid the top button of my blouse. Then the second one.

I needed to get out of these clothes.

I walked up the stairs. I told myself I was going to my room to change.

But as I reached the landing I heard the water running in the twins’ bathroom.

The door was cracked open about an inch. Steam was pouring out. They showered together. For “camaraderie” they said.

I shouldn’t stop. I should walk past.

But my feet stopped moving.

I stood there in the hallway. I listened to the sound of the shower. I imagined the two of them in there. Four legs. Two tight asses. Soaping each other up. Just like the team used to do.

I looked down at my skirt. I pressed my hand against the front of it. Right between my legs.

The wool was rough against my palm. But underneath through the layers of Spanx and nylon I could feel the heat.

I was wet.

“Jesus,” I hissed.

I forced my feet to move. I walked into my bedroom and shut the door. I leaned back against it and closed my eyes.

I could still smell the sweat.

The following Saturday started like any other work day for me, even though it was the weekend. I woke up at 6:00 AM. I drank my kale smoothie. I spent an hour on the Peloton. By 9:00 AM I was installed in my home office answering emails from the Singapore team.

I wasn’t wearing a suit today, but I wasn’t sloppy either. I was wearing a pair of cream silk wide-leg trousers and a matching silk camisole. It was expensive loungewear. The kind that said I was relaxing, but I was still richer than you.

I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my laptop while a spreadsheet loaded.

My hair was down for once. It fell past my shoulders in a blonde curtain. I looked younger with it down. Less severe. But my face still looked tired. It was the exhaustion of someone who held the ceiling up for everyone else.

I looked down at my chest. The silk camisole skimmed over my breasts. They were heavy without a bra. I hated the feeling of them sagging against my ribcage, but today, I didn’t want the wire. I wanted to breathe.

Downstairs, the house was alive.

The twins had turned the finished basement into their personal gym. For the last hour, I had been listening to the thumping bass of whatever terrible hip-hop playlist they used for their workouts.

It was distracting. I couldn’t focus on the quarterly projections.

I sighed and closed my laptop. I needed a refill on my coffee anyway. I decided I would go down there and tell them to turn it down. I would be the parent.

I walked to the kitchen and poured my coffee. The floor was vibrating slightly from the bass. I walked to the basement door. I opened it, and the music hit me with a blast.

I walked down the carpeted stairs. The air got cooler as I descended, but it also started to smell. It was that smell again. Musk and sweat. But down here, contained in the basement, it was thicker. Intoxicating.

The basement gym was set up with a wall of mirrors. I had installed it for yoga, but the girls had taken it over.