Loving Jason

Okay, someone asked me for a mother/son story, so here you go. I can tell you right now, I have no plans for continuing this one. I liked writing it, but it would take something major to make me continue it. I like how it ended, and I don't really want to mess with that. Unless the reviews are just that awesome. Please vote and leave me comments. I love comments. They are good for my self-esteem. Every time you don't leave a comment, a puppy cries. And it's a cute puppy. Really cute. Why don't you like puppies? -Shaide

I was 26 years old when I realized I didn't love my husband. It's a horrible thing to say, but it was true. After 3 years of dating and 2 years of marriage, I had the sudden epiphany that this man was not my soul mate; he wasn't even my equal. That day, at 26 years old, at 3:18 am, my son was born. And his father fainted.

I liked my husband, once upon a time, but I never loved him. I was only ever infatuated with him, but that wore off a long time ago. You would think a psychologist would be better at knowing the difference between love and infatuation, but the worst thing any doctor can do is try to diagnose themselves. We usually try to make our own problems or issues fit who we believe we are as a person. Medical doctors can't be sick; they cure sickness so it is impossible that they themselves could ever suffer from sickness. Psychologists have perfect mentalities. We have studied the mind. We help people figure out and move beyond their own psychosis. So how could we have any mental issues ourselves? That's the very reason we see other psychologists. It's easy to take on the problems of those around you. And in this industry, we are surrounded by problems. It's like the Walmart of mental issues, buy two and you get a discount. But at 26 years old, when it was too late for me to do anything about it, as I held my son in my hands, I was finally able to admit that I didn't, had never, loved this man who was now able to claim the paternity of my one and only child. The only child I would ever have.

There were "complications" with my son's birth. I had actually died for a few minutes. Apparently, my heart wasn't strong enough to bear children. I never should have been allowed to have a child. But I did. And it was the most joyous moment of my life. The moment I held him in my arms, I knew that I would destroy the world, the very universe, before I let anyone harm one little hair on his head. My son. My beautiful, beautiful son. And Ben, my husband, had the nerve to name him Calbert.

I had it changed the very next day, but that was my trigger. The nurse came into my room holding my son. She handed me "little Calbert" and, laughing, told me about my husband fainting during the delivery. I waited until she left before I turned my wrath on him.

"CALBERT! YOU NAMED HIM CALBERT!" I was whisper yelling. I never liked the idea of the outside world knowing what went on in my life. I have always been a fan of privacy.

"I... I..."

"THAT IS NOT THE NAME WE AGREED ON!"

"Honey..."

"I WILL fix this. And if I ever hear you call him that..."

Ben was a narcissist. He was all about him, him, and some more of him. He was a blustering, blabbering, blatant idiot. As I think back on it, I'm surprised I never had an affair. In college, it made him seem dominant and take charge. He was a frat boy football player, all the girls wanted him, and he chose me. That was a very special feeling. He was sexy then. He had washboard abs, big muscles, and seemed like he was smart and witty. Then he dropped out. He said there were too many opportunities and going to college was only holding him back. He was a rebel. I found out, far too late, that he had been kicked out for failing grades. He became a security guard. And that is the end of his story. He was never promoted. Never made a supervisor. Never moved on. Never anything. To this day he is still nothing but a lowly, low-level, security guard.

Still, I stood by my man. I stayed with him, even as I moved on to bigger and better things. I had accepted internships, earned my masters, my doctorate, was accepted into one of the most revered practices in the state, and was well on my way to becoming a partner in a firm that catered to the rich. I became the bread winner for our little family. Millionaires told me their deepest, darkest secrets on a daily basis. I knew that the vice-president of a major oil company was raped as a young boy by his uncle. I knew he was getting ready for a hostile takeover of a smaller oil company, and I knew exactly what that would do for his company's stock. Yes, it's insider trading. I didn't care. I bought as much of that stock as I could and made a hefty profit. And it wasn't the last time I did it. Yet, somehow, I came home every day for years to hear about how important his day was.

How he talked to some IT guy, how he bullied some truck driver, how his boss thought so "highly" of him. Yet, he was passed up for every promotion. I should have noticed it. He never talked about anything he did wrong. All the times he pissed his manager off, or why someone else was promoted instead of him. As far as he was concerned, he had made it. He had an expensive car, the BMW I bought for him, a house bigger than his bosses, that I had bought, and a sexy wife he could fuck anytime he wanted to. I worked out 4 times a week.

If I had been paying attention, I would have seen it. I was distancing myself from him, using my money to place a barrier between us. He bragged and bragged, reliving his college and high school days anytime someone would listen to him. Meanwhile, I was climbing the corporate ladder. From a secretary to an assistant to a doctor to a future partner. I went from setting appointments for rich brats to having their parents fighting over appointment times for me. It was a very gratifying feeling, having millionaires arguing over who got to talk to me when.

But the moment I held Andrew in my arms changed my world. I finally knew what love was. I would cross oceans and move mountains for this little boy. I would defy God himself. And I knew that what I felt for my husband didn't even begin to compare.

Andrew was a prodigy. I know every mother thinks that their child is special, but Andrew truly was. He was beginning to talk at three months old, saying Mama every time he saw me, and walking by six months. He absolutely loved my computer, pushing buttons and watching things appear on the screen.

His sorry excuse for a father was jealous of him. After the "Calbert" incident, which was never spoken of again, I rarely let him anywhere near my son without me being near. Honestly, have you ever heard of a more ridiculous name! How could I allow a man who would do that to a child anywhere near my son? Only the fact that we were married without a pre-nup kept him in the house. That and the fact that a child without his father in his life doesn't fare as well as his counterparts. I was a psychologist, I had seen all kinds of father issues lay down on my couch. My son would not be one of them.

At two years old, he was able to spell his name and I enrolled him in all kinds of advanced reading and writing programs. Still, his attention was always caught up anytime a computer came on. One day his father carelessly left a screwdriver out and I came home from grocery shopping to find Andrew working away at my desktop computer. I ran and grabbed my camera. The look of concentration on his little face was so cute. Not that I had all my senses swept away in a river of cute. That was still my work computer with all of my data. Ben slept on the couch for a month.

I had always heard of stories about kids with toasters, but a desktop computer?! I'll give you, he wasn't delicate about it. Anything he couldn't unscrew was torn apart or beaten on the floor until it broke. But what three year old is taking apart his mother's computer? Either way, I learned the value of having something cheap and mechanical around the house that he could play with.

Ben started complaining about our non-existent sex life, so I started fucking him again. Honestly, I was starting to feel the itch myself and vibrators just weren't cutting it, and I was still worried about his leaving with half of my hard earned life. So we started fucking again, but it was never like before. I didn't pretend for him anymore. He would mount me, rut for a few minutes, pop, and roll off with a smile on his face. I still wasn't satisfied, but I had my son and my money and the ability to provide him the life I felt he deserved.

When Andrew was eight, I started to pay more attention to his personality. He wasn't making very many friends. His teachers never complained about him or anything, but he never came home from school talking about any of his classmates. So I talked to his teachers.

"Nothing is wrong Mrs. Davon. Andrew just hasn't bloomed yet. He's not an outgoing type of boy, but eventually the other children will warm up to him."

"But will he even know what to do then? It seems like he's missing a lot of experiences a child should have."

"Parents often make more of that than is really necessary. He talks to the other children, but he just doesn't get too close to them. His interests are just on things they aren't ready for yet."

That was true. I didn't like it, but reality was reality. Andrew was just too advanced for them. And he wouldn't pretend to be interested in something he wasn't. So, I had Andrew enrolled in programming and computer building classes. It's where his interests were and it would be a great foundation for his future. The world was moving towards robots and space travel and my Andrew would one day be leading the way.

Still, he was nothing like his father, and for that I was grateful. He was quiet, easy-going. Nothing ever seemed to disturb him. Ben, on the other hand, had started drinking. When he drank, he got loud. Angry. He never hit me though, he wouldn't dare. But he screamed and railed. Andrew, like his mother, mostly ignored his father. The loud drunk eventually realized he wasn't going to get his way, so he became the quiet drunk. Ben would sit in the den, drinking expensive scotch, reminiscing on "the good ol' days." He had gotten fat over the last few years. He never worked out, his eating habits were horrible. Sometimes I think he abused himself because he knew better than to try that with me.

When Andrew was ten, I walk outside to find him sketching a bird that was sitting on a tree branch in the back yard. It was absolutely wonderful. It was no masterpiece, mind you, but it showed such potential. I thought to myself, "Is there nothing my son can't do?" I immediately enrolled him in art classes. He loved it.

By that point, I was spending over $2000 a month just on his extra programs. I had stopped having sex with Ben again. I just couldn't take having that fat slob of a man on top of me anymore. And I had pretty much cut him off from my bank accounts. It was very easy to see that Andrew and I lived one life, a very content life, and his father lived another. I had a "man cave" built as an addition to the house and Ben quite naturally migrated there. Andrew and I lived in the rest of the house.

He was such a mama's boy. Not that I ever complained though. I absolutely loved that he seemed to take an interest in anything I did. If I was lying on the couch reading, he would go to his room, grab a book, and lie on the floor to read with me. When I was cooking, he would do his homework in the kitchen. If I was by the pool, he would find all kinds of reasons to be outside with me.

Still, as much as I enjoyed my son's company, a woman has needs. And, being the good wife I was, I kept to my vows. I never strayed from my husband. Every few months I would think that maybe, maybe, this one time, Ben would please me. I was always wrong. And every time seemed to be worse than the last.

He would cum after only a minute of actual intercourse, or while I was sucking on him trying to get him hard. Once he came just from me jacking him for a few strokes. And every time, as soon as he came, that would be the end of it. He would roll over and go to sleep. Not once did he ever even offer to lick on me, or finger me. Nothing!

I was horny, desperate. There were times I thought that this was his way of punishing me for something. But that would have been far too complicated for him. He was just pathetic. Needless to say though, my toy collection grew to a point that it rivaled Andrew's. Ben actually complained one night.

"Why do you have all these damn sex toys?"

I was astonished. "You actually have the nerve to ask me that? Wow."

"If you need sex, I'm right here."

"Really. Right there? I know you're right there, you fucking idiot. There's so much of you, how could I ever miss you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a fat fucking slob that couldn't please a real woman except in his fucking dreams, and probably not even then." I was actually calm the whole time. It was just so freeing to finally give voice to these complaints after all this time.

"Karen!"

"Fuck off, Ben. You haven't pleased me in years. Hell, I can't remember the last time I orgasmed without one of my toys."

"I'm your husband! If you put a little more effort..."

"Fuck off," I interrupted him. His yelling was annoying. "If you're such a husband, make me cum. Right now. Drop drawers and make it happen, then we can talk about my 'effort.' Otherwise..."

I left it hanging. Something about Ben always made him imagine consequences to be so horrible. That was the last time he ever brought up that subject. He was a narcissist. I was a psychologist. I knew I was doing the very worst thing I could to him. I was destroying is deluded sense of self, and I liked it.

Only a mother can understand this, but, when you have a child, you measure time by your child's age, that's the only thing that really matters to you. The fact that your child is still drawing breath. At twelve years old, Andrew had his own credit card. His computer hobby had meta-morphed into something far beyond my control. He was ordering parts and pieces with complicated names that had a purpose I couldn't even begin to guess at. The guest bedroom somehow became his IT department.

One of the bonuses was that we had the fastest internet in the neighborhood. But when his report card came in, I noticed something was wrong. It took me a few minutes, but I went into my office and pulled out the last one and compared them.

Andrew was a skinny boy, well on his way to being a geek. But somehow, and quite suddenly, his gym grade went from a C to an A, for grading periods that had already ended. So had his history grades. I had my suspicions, but I didn't say anything. If a twelve year old could hack the school system, well then good for him. Still, I refused to have a scrawny son. It didn't take anything more than inviting him to the gym with me to start him to working out.

That Mother's day Andrew gave me a portrait of myself that he had painted. It was beautiful, masterful. His father showed no appreciation, but that didn't matter to either of us. I hung the portrait in my office at work, everyone admired it. No one believed my twelve year old son had done it.

Honestly, there was no limit to the pride I felt for Andrew. I made partner when he was 13. As a gift, one of the senior partners gave me a pair of tickets to a play that was being performed at the local theater. My "husband" refused to go, not that I was surprised. He didn't leave the house for anything but work anymore. He couldn't even pry himself out of his recliner to attend the dinner the partners hosted for me to announce my promotion. My son saw the tickets and asked if he could go with me.

Since he had begun to work out, Andrew had developed a small streak of vanity. He paid more attention to his appearance, how he dressed, and absolutely loved any excuse to put on a suit. So my son escorted me to the theater that night. It had been a long time since I had seen live theater, but I ended up purchasing season tickets. Surprisingly, Andrew was enchanted with it. I asked him if he wanted to take acting classes but he declined.

"It wouldn't be as good if I knew how it worked. Life should have some mysteries."

I almost cried when he said that. My little boy was growing up. We went to the theater at least two times a month to see the latest shows. And we always went backstage to meet the actors. It was during that first show that I found out how shy my Andrew was.

The actress who played the lead was gorgeous. She was a petite little thing, but she was well proportioned, and had the face of an angel. She was the type of beauty that made older women realize how cruel a master Time could be. There wasn't a wrinkle on her, her smile was pure and warming, her eyes bright with hope and youth. I was mature enough to admit that I was jealous of her.

Andrew, my sweet little boy, was enchanted. He couldn't even speak when she came by to talk to us. The young actress and I both thought it was so cute, charming even. She kissed him on the cheek and his blush covered his whole face.

When Andrew turned 16, I bought him his first car. His father had actually emerged from his little hole to try to convince him to get a muscle car, but Andrew scoffed at the idea.

"What would be the point of that? It would be loud, old, and ineffient." A lot like Ben, I thought to myself. Instead, Andrew had gotten a Jaguar. It was an interesting driveway. My Mercedes, Andrew's Jag, and Ben's BMW. Only two of the cars still looked like luxury vehicles though. Ben's BMW was old, dirty, and beat to hell. It looked like something that should have been taken out back and shot years ago, again, just like him.

That was also the first time I had gotten a check in the mail that didn't have my name on it. It had Andrew's. What the hell did my son do to have someone send him a check for $8000?

"Andrew, what's this," I asked as I walked into his room and handed him the check.

He turned away from his computer. Although calling it a computer would be like calling a paper airplane a spaceship. The thing was a command center. It had three different keyboards and 8 screens.

He took the check from me, "About time. It's for some work I did a few weeks ago."

"What did you do?"

"I solved their security problem. Can you put this into my account?"

I walked over and kissed him on the forehead. "Of course honey." That was the first of many checks that I put into his account. And it was the smallest amount that I had ever seen him receive. In six months, Andrew was making ten times the money his father was.

Still, with an expensive car, lots of cash, and a charming wit, he was always home on Saturday nights. I couldn't understand why? He was charming, polite, smart, sophisticated. Working out with me had given him a wonderful build. He was full of strong, lean muscle. He reminded me of the water boy at the office. God, I liked that water boy. If I wasn't a married woman...

His senior year, when he was 17, the acceptance letters started coming. He didn't even send out applications. The schools knew who he was. Recruiters came from all over the country to talk to my son. His father attempted to make a reappearance but I shut that down. Andrew eventually accepted an offer to attend school with our own state university. It was only an hour's drive away, so he could stay at home and attend. It was still a prestigious school, but I felt like it was beneath him.

"Mom, I can't cook, I can't wash clothes, I wouldn't have space for my things. What would I do if I had to live out there?" He was right. He had tried washing clothes once. For our maid's birthday, he tried to do all her work for her before she came over. He had ruined $1500 worth of clothes. Somehow, he felt that if bleach was good for whites, it was good for everything. I shuddered at the thought of him cooking anything. I think he tried once, but I've repressed that memory, and it's probably for the best that I keep it repressed.