Our eyes met in the mirror above the sink. For one endless second the world stopped. Then she simply reached for the towel I held frozen in my hand, took it calmly, and wrapped it around herself, tucking it above her breasts.
“What, beta?” she asked with a gentle, amused smile, water dripping from her hair onto her collarbone. “You want to bathe again?”
There was no shock in her voice, no embarrassment—only the same fond indulgence she’d always shown her little boy. In her mind it was nothing: bodies were natural, nudity in the home harmless, especially between mother and son in this heat. She turned away to dry her hair, humming again, dismissing the Mummyent entirely.
I backed out, stammering something incoherent, cock aching harder than ever, the image of her naked form branded forever behind my eyes.
Later that night, during laundry folding in the living room—another revived ritual—she sat cross-legged on the floor in a fresh cotton nighty, handing me warm, sun-dried clothes. Each time she leaned forward, the neckline gaped, offering fleeting glimpses of the upper swells of her breasts, no bra beneath. When she passed me her own petticoats and blouses, still carrying the faint scent of her body, our fingers brushed longer than necessary. She chatted about mundane things—bank gossip, Papa’s latest call—while I folded with trembling hands, inhaling her warmth from the fabric, fighting the urge to press a damp panty to my face when she looked away. Boundaries blurred innocently on her side: a casual hand on my thigh for emphasis, a playful ruffle of my wet hair, leaning close enough that her breast brushed my arm. On my side, every touch was electric torture, every glimpse a step closer to the abyss.
The monsoon had finally broken, turning the nights cooler, but the air in my room still felt thick with secrets. I’d fallen asleep with the phone plugged in on the bedside table, screen dimmed but not locked—stupid, careless habit. Sometime past midnight I woke to soft footsteps and the faint glow of the charging light. Mummy stood there in her pale cotton nighty, hair loose and tousled from sleep, holding my phone at arm’s length, squinting at the screen. One of the friends’ latest texts had lit up: a crudely edited image—her face photoshopped onto a busty MILF on all fours, caption screaming “Aunty begging for it.”
My stomach dropped through the floor.
She didn’t gasp or scold. She simply set the phone down gently, as if it were something fragile, and sat on the edge of my bed. The mattress dipped under her weight; moonlight from the window painted silver across her collarbones and the soft rise of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. I lay frozen, pretending to be half-asleep, heart battering my ribs.
“Ankit,” she whispered, voice tender, almost amused. Her hand settled on my shoulder, warm through the sheet. “Beta, wake up a little. We should talk.”
I opened my eyes, feigning groggy confusion. She turned the phone toward me so I could see the glowing filth. Her expression held no anger—only that familiar maternal softness, laced with gentle pity.