Chapter 2

I came home Monday wondering if the chill of the weekend would still be there. Mom met me at the door as usual, but the hug, while not bad, was not what it had been. During supper, we talked about general stuff. I could tell Mom was down, but I hoped it was from Dad and the bad weekend and not my pushing things too far Thursday night.

As we started to eat, I surprised myself by reaching over and squeezing her hand. "Dad is a fool," I said. "You are a beautiful, wonderful woman." It just came out and had the ring of truth. Nothing sexual. Well, not too much.

Mom smiled at the compliment. She looked at me for a moment. I couldn't read her expression for sure, but I hoped it wasn't her wondering if her son was a pervert. But why the long hugs that she had been a willing participant in, and then the length of time on Thursday she spent pressing against my hard dick. She had to felt it and she had not backed off.

After we finished eating, we sat at the table and talked about Dad. Mom had learned that the woman Dad was involved with was one of the new management types hired for the new plant. And to add salt to that wound, Dad was spending Monday through Thursday nights with her in her home in the town where the plant was being built.

Mom didn't know what to do. He'd never been this open about his women before. Still, for Mom and the way she was raised, divorce or leaving him was not an option. You could see the weary resignation in her face and hear it in her voice.

That really tugged at my heartstrings. So I continued to tell her what a wonderful woman she was and how angry I was at Dad for treating her this way. (Looking back, I can see that I was in full "Oedipus Rex" mode here—kill my father and seduce my mother.) Anyway, Mom must have sensed the truth behind my words, because as we talked, I could feel the distance between us since Thursday night lessen.

Then the discussion turned to my divorce as we had off and on in the past. I talked about my hurts and my inability to trust another woman. Just not ready to date again. I told Mom how much I wanted a woman like her. And kept repeating how big a fool my father was. I kept at that theme because I could see Mom soaking it up.

As the conversation went on, her stiff posture grew softer and we kept catching each other's eyes across the table. Two adults talking, two adults who cared about each other, sharing our hurts. I was twenty-five, she was fifty-five, but I tell you that I could sense things were in the air.

I reached across the table and took her hand again. "I want to tell you how much I've enjoyed being back home."

Mom smiled at me. "Same here."

I kept my hand on hers. "You are my mother; I love you and always will. That's a solid foundation that nothing can alter." I squeezed her hand again. "It's been so ... pleasing ... to relate to you as an adult. I want that to continue."

Mom gave a quick squeeze back. "Yes, it's been ... the same for me. I am proud of the man you are."

I took things a bit farther. "I want our adult relationship to deepen. As I said, our basic relationship, our love for each other, is so strong that it provides the security—and safety—for anything else."

Mom was listening closely. At my pause, she nodded for me to go on.

I said. "We are helping each other overcome hurts and betrayals. I am a grown man with both my feet solidly on the ground. It would thrill me beyond words to be there for you. And for you to be there for me."

Mom's eyes were on me. She had made no move to take her hand out of mine. She said, "But you need to go on and overcome your divorce and your other relationship afterwards. And you will. When the right woman comes along, you don't need to be encumbered with, well, other things."

A hot thrill flashed through me at this evidence that Mom had indeed been thinking about us going further down the road.

"This is a unique time for both of us," I said. "It will not last, but I don't see things changing anytime soon. Do you?"

After a moment, Mom shook her head.

I squeezed her hand yet again. "Never doubt that I love you deeply and respect you beyond words, both as my mother and as a woman. Nothing will ever change that. For the next months anyway, I really, really hope our growing adult relationship will become even warmer and more loving than it has been."

Well, there it was, as plain as I could make it. Mom contemplated the tabletop for a time. Her expression was hard to read, but I took hope in the fact that she didn't look totally freaked out. Finally, she gave my hand a last squeeze and stood up.

After we did the dishes, she gave me a quick, tight hug, with her breasts pressed firmly against my chest. Then she stepped back.

"I am very tried tonight. I need to go to bed." Then she gave a kiss on the cheek—the last time she'd done that was the day I got married. "I will see you tomorrow." She headed down the hallway to her bedroom and closed the door.

While less than I had hoped for, I thought it was not all bad. She had heard me out and not gone off like a Roman candle in moral disgust. And I took her breast-pressing hug and peck on the cheek as a clear signal that she wasn't slamming the door shut—or thinking about disowning me.

(I know all this setup is taking a while. I thank any reader still with me and hope he/she is finding all this worthwhile. As I said at the beginning, I am writing this primarily for me—for me to re-live it; for me to get it down before Father Time diminishes the memory beyond recall; and for me to set down my thoughts on mother/son incest as Mom and I lived it. The hot action is coming soon. Bear with me a bit more.)

Surprisingly—or maybe not—I remember Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday's nights discussions happening, not at the supper table as before, but after we did the dishes. It was like an unspoken assumption between us that on Monday night we had crossed so far beyond our previous supper table talks and that this fire-hot topic needed a new venue.

As we ate supper Tuesday we talked about normal daily stuff. Then we cleared off the dishes and put them in the kitchen sink. I washed, Mom dried. We did say anything until the last dish and pot was done. Then she dried her hands with the towel and said,

"I can't believe that we talked about what we did last night. Right here in our home, at our kitchen table."

"That illustrates my point. Here, alone in our home, behind closed doors, and within the security of our relationship, we have the freedom to talk like this. And the opportunity to do more."

"Freedom and opportunity doesn't make it right."

The Sunday school teacher was rearing its head. I knew all along that was going to be my major obstacle. "If I was fifteen, it would be wrong. If you had a marriage worthy of the name, it would be wrong..."

"I've never been unfaithful to your father."

"I am sure of it. But you've told me it's been a year since you and Dad have had sex, right? And if he keeps going the way he's going, are you willing for that to be it? Never again?"

Mom didn't answer, but I could tell that had an impact.

I kept on. "If it is going to happen again for you, then who better than with someone who loves you and respects you more than anyone else in this world." I gave a grin. "And with someone that you can rest assured will not talking about it. What happens here will definitely stay here."