My father died during world war 2. I just turned 18 that time. My mother was 35 years old.
The telegram arrived on a crisp autumn morning, just as the leaves were beginning to turn golden. I remember the way my mother's hands shook as she unfolded the thin paper, her eyes scanning the words that would forever change our lives. She didn't cry, not then. Instead, she turned to me with a strange, distant look in her eyes and said, "Your father won't be coming home, Charlie."
In the days that followed, our small house seemed to shrink, the silence growing louder with each passing hour. Mother threw herself into work, taking on extra shifts at the factory where she assembled airplane parts. I'd come home from school to find her hunched over the kitchen table, hands raw and red, staring at nothing.
At night, I'd lie awake in my bed, straining to hear the familiar creak of floorboards that used to signal my father's late return from the docks.
Two weeks after the news, something happened. I had a hard time sleeping each night. Every night, my mother would cry herself to sleep. I decided to help my mother cope. I woke up at 2 am and walked into her bedroom. She hushed me over. I laid next to her and held her to sleep.
That first night, as I held her, I felt the weight of her grief pressing against my chest. Her tears soaked through my pajama shirt, but I didn't move. I just stroked her hair, the way I'd seen Father do countless times before. We didn't speak; words seemed inadequate in the face of such loss.
As the nights went on, this became our unspoken ritual. I'd wait until the house settled into its midnight quiet, then pad softly to her room. Sometimes she'd be awake, staring at the ceiling. Other times, I'd find her curled into a tight ball, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Always, she'd lift the covers without a word, making space for me beside her.
In those dark hours, I felt myself growing older, shouldering a responsibility I wasn't sure I was ready for. But as I comforted my mother, my feelings begin to change. On the seventh night, my body began to react to my mother's body. I noticed my hormones changing. I started to sniff her sweet smell. My hands slowly explored her body.
I recoiled, horrified by my body's reaction. This was my mother - the woman who had raised me, who was grieving for my father. I felt sick with shame and guilt. Carefully, I extracted myself from her embrace and crept back to my own room, my cheeks burning.
The next night, I hesitated outside her door. Part of me wanted to continue our nightly ritual, to be there for her in her grief. But I was afraid of my own traitorous body, of the confused feelings warring inside me. In the end, I returned to my bed alone.
Days passed. Mother noticed my absence but didn't comment. Dark circles grew under her eyes as her nightmares returned. I threw myself into my studies and after-school job, desperate for distraction.
But avoidance solved nothing. One evening, Mother cornered me in the kitchen. "Charlie," she said softly, "I've missed your presence. Please come back to me tonight."
"Okay, mamma." I replied.
Later that night, I went to my mother again. I was fine at first but then my body begin to do its own thing. I was moving often as to make sure my mother didn't feel my hard-on. The more I move, the tighter my mother hold me.
"Charlie," whispered my mother, "I need this."
