A "broken home" means just one thing to most people, but I come from one, and what it means to me is a broken mom. A terrible divorce and the realization that my pig of a father had been having an affair, shook my mother's world. The last thing that I heard my father say to mom, before he walked out of our lives forever, as they were screaming at each other outside of the lawyer's office, was that he had a young bitch now who would do anything that he wanted.
That was almost seven years ago. I was fifteen then, my mom was holding my two year-old sister in her arms, both of them crying. I didn't even have a driver's license yet but I drove us all home, because mom was inconsolable. That day sticks in my mind for the misery and heartache that he caused her, but I didn't discover until much later, the deep emotional scars that he inflicted. She sat next to me sobbing, and asking quietly what she had done wrong. I had never seen her look so disheveled. Strangers had stared and pointed.
Her beautiful hair was tangled from where she had pulled it. Her faultless make-up was smeared and blurry on her normally sunny face. The baby was crying on her shoulder, and mom seemed lost, tiny and worn-out. The outer effects were easily remedied, but the inner turmoil caused by that awful day changed my mother from that moment to this day. She carried the load for the three of us, outwardly appearing strong and decisive, but her psyche was forever shaken. She was unsure of herself emotionally and though I didn't understand it then, or saw any signs of it, the manner in which she saw herself sexually was altered in a very unusual manner.
It didn't even occur to me at that time, that she was barely thirty-two years-old, and isn't forty yet. But though she redoubled her efforts to support her family, she had almost given-up on her own happiness. Or atleast the part of it that belonged exclusively to her. Since then, she slaved to help put me through technical school, where I became a programmer. And she made certain that my little sister always had pretty clothes and a packed lunch and got to the bus on time. But she lost all interest in her own life or future. Or so I thought. Actually, she was battling demons. It seems that she was examining her sex-life, and what exactly would make her feel the best, though ofcourse I knew nothing about this until much later.
Recently, I've had occasion to take a closer look at our evolving family dynamic. My mom's name is Angela but friends call her Angie. She is an office manager for our local dentist, so she dresses conservatively and speaks in a kind but formal manner. She is about 5'9" with coal-black hair that had lately shown some greying streaks, until as a gift on her birthday, I sent her on a Spa day.
A professional colored her hair and convinced her to update her make-up routine to highlight her round cheeks and add some gloss to moisten her pouty lips.
The resulting changes made her feel better about herself. The lovely woman who strode back through our front door looked closer to twenty-five than to forty. If I were to assess her feminine features as an observer, not just her loving son, I would start with her figure. I've seen her in nightgowns and when sunbathing, and my mom is what you would call a real MILF.
Angie's had two children so her hips are wide and full, with a cushiony rear-end, and her bustline is a robust 36C that sags just a bit, but when gathered into tight-fitting tops has a hypnotic bounce and very generous cleavage. She is long-waisted, so in a two-piece or a cropped-top, though her belly is round and soft, there are no extra rolls and she has enough to grab hold of.
Her long legs are shapely and the people at work don't know what they've been missing when she is hidden in scrubs and sneakers or attends meetings in pant-suits and flats. But at home when she is in shorts or only undies and a long tee, or when I've finally gotten her to wear slit dresses with heels, she can turn anyone's head.
My name is Pete and over the years, I've stretched-out and filled-out too. I have dark hair and eyes, and a black stubble when I grow lazy. And I was forced to grow-up in a hurry. With my mom hurrying home from work to raise my sister, I graduated high school, tech school and got a job. Now, she works part-time and attends to the house, while I work overtime to help pay for the extras, and we often collapse on the sofa at night to watch TV after my sister is bathed and put to bed.
I sowed my wild oats early, learning about money, women and booze in a short time and determined that I could experience most things that I needed for the moment with a six-pack and internet porn, in the privacy of my home. It just never crossed my mind that I was following mom's example. And like most males when they reach a certain age, when I would casually observe my mom lounging around or preparing for bed, those innocent glances would often turn into voyeuristic peeks at her curvy shape, hoping to catch a furtive glimpse of a braless chest or a tight bikini bottom.
