* Arrival *
After several years of studying engineering at the university, I was going home. I had lived in one of the university residential colleges and had not spent much time at home over the past years. Now, having completed my first degree, I was taking a break to consider my future. I was fortunate, in that my paternal grandparents had left me some safe investments, which returned enough to give me a frugal independence. I could therefore take my time in considering where I was heading.
Until a couple of weeks before I had been looking forward to this visit, but then two events cast me into a state of depression. First, my mother contacted me to let me know my father had left her. Second, Pamela who had been my girl friend, and with whom I had thought to have a future, announced that she no longer wanted the relationship with me, and in any case she had been having sex with a couple of other students while still having it with me.
Both pieces of news left me a wreck. As far as Pamela is concerned, I can leave it to your imagination how bitter a blow this was. I felt a complete fool and utterly betrayed. My father was a different matter. The family home was in one of the larger provincial cities where my father had an accountancy business. He was the sort of person who always had "schemes" on the go. Schemes for investments and tax minimisation all of which were just inside the law (just), into which he put none of his own money, but persuaded many of the locals to put theirs.
One of the schemes had gone badly wrong, and whilst this was no financial loss to my father, some of his victims were after his blood. He had taken off with a girl twenty-five years his junior who had worked in his office. No one knew where he was. He had simply left a note for my mother, and departed.
As the train pulled into the station, I wondered what was to greet me. My mother was waiting on the platform. I could see immediately the effect of my father s departure on her. She looked tired and a little stooped and this was very uncharacteristic of mother. We greeted each other with a kiss and went out to the car. We lived about ten minutes drive from the station, and during the drive, little was said except the usual formal things like, "What sort of journey did you have?"
"Oh, not bad," and so on.
Arriving home, we busied ourselves with putting away my things and making a few minor adjustments to my old bedroom. We made much of all this as if to avoid talking about the matters which were foremost in our minds. It added to the pain.
Once the room was settled it was time for the evening meal. We sat down to this and hardly spoke throughout. The evening continued like this, with no more than desultory conversation and amazingly, no reference to the two matters affecting us most deeply. Eventually came time for bed, and with relief I turned in, thinking, that if this was how things were going to be, I had better cut the visit short for both our sakes.
* Consolation *
I had slept little and badly for a fortnight, but now I drifted off quickly. I slept deep and long and awoke late. Deciding on breakfast as the first priority I put on my dressing gown and went down to the kitchen. Mother was nowhere in sight, but she had left food out for me. I assumed she was at work in her studio, and decided not to disturb her.
Mother is an artist. Not a great artist, but competent. She sold quite well in a couple of local galleries, and got an occasional private commission. Financially she had no particular worries, for although my father was no longer supplying money for the household, in addition to money from her work, her parents had left her money. Like my inheritance, not a fortune, but enough.
After breakfast I showered and went to my room to dress. I got as far as putting on a pair of boxer shorts, and then looked for my shirts. I couldn't find them. Mother must have put them away somewhere, so I had to disturb her anyway.
To get to her studio I had to go through what used to be the family room. This had no door, only an arch, so my entry was probably very quiet. I got one step into the room, then saw mother. She was sitting on the couch leaning against one its arms, staring out of the large window with its view of the distant hills. She had one foot on the floor, and the other drawn up onto the seat. I stopped, startled. She was naked.
I should explain that the nakedness was not all that suprising. Throughout my childhood, I had been used to seeing my parents getting about with nothing on from time to time. We had never made a thing about this. In fact, I can recall that as a little boy I would sometimes climb into bed with my parents, who always slept naked. This stopped when I was about six, but only because I decided that it was a bit sissy for a boy to get into his parent's bed. So, I had seen my mother nude many time before, as she had seen me. What did startled me was that her hand was down between her legs, and she was obviously masturbating.
I must have made a noise, because mother, who was sitting in profile to me, looked round and quickly drew her hand away from her vagina. She flushed and said, "Sorry darling, I just need the comfort." I said, "It's all right mum, I have had to do that myself sometimes." It was as I said this I saw the tears that were pouring down her face.
I went and sat besides her putting my arm round her. "Oh mother, mother, I'm so sorry, I..."
She cut in, "Michael, I'm so miserable, so utterly miserable. You came home yesterday and I didn't even give you a proper welcome. And yet I'm so very, very pleased you re here. You can't know how I've longed to see you." She leaned against me, burying her face into my chest. She was wracked with sobs of grief. "Welcome home, my love," she sobbed.
