There's only one good mom in the world.

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

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Because my father was a career soldier, moving was a frequent occurrence during my childhood.

This made me increasingly dislike making friends, as saying goodbye to budding friendships was incredibly painful. Even

more frustrating was that I was an only child, without siblings to laugh and play with. I became a very lonely child, blaming my father and constantly criticizing him in my heart.

Many people dream of traveling the world, but I must say, no matter how vast or exciting the world may be, loneliness remains a constant companion. I truly hated moving between different places.

I can't say he was a bad father, nor can I agree that he was a good dad. I think children of soldiers can understand this feeling; when a father who is always away returns home, the reunion isn't filled with the joy of a long-awaited reunion, but rather with a strange and immense sense of alienation.

His world consisted only of stark black and white, and unquestionable right and wrong; for him, behavior was simply a matter of appropriateness or inappropriateness. My father was always extremely respectful to his elders; as for women, he believed they didn't need much respect; and when it came to children, including me, he didn't require any polite treatment.

Although I didn't consciously think about my father's behavior as I grew up, I knew very well that deep down, I loathed him. I was a good child, always behaving politely, getting high marks on tests, never late handing in homework, keeping my room spotless, and never getting into trouble.

However, the more I followed my father's teachings, the deeper my hatred for him grew. His military background, his sharp personality, his fondness for showing off his perfectly wrinkle-free uniform and even his silly sailor's collar—all of these disgusted me. He wasn't the good father I knew, nor was he a good husband to my mother.

My mother was five years younger than my father, and compared to him, she was much thinner, about 150 centimeters tall. She had reddish-brown hair that reached her shoulders, dark eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and thin lips. From as far back as I can remember, my mother was the embodiment of beauty. From what I've heard indirectly, every one of my father's military friends who had seen her was full of praise for her beauty.

She treated me with gentle love and kindness, like a close friend, always giving me hugs and kisses when needed, and doing her best to meet my needs. Undoubtedly, I loved and respected her deeply. What I couldn't understand was why my father didn't cherish her. He wasn't bad to my mother, but considering her behavior, he reciprocated far too little. His indifferent attitude towards her was what I hated most about him.

My father was rarely home; he had too many daily chores to complete, too many exercises to participate in, and even short, classified missions to carry out. Therefore, it was always just my mother and me at home, a situation I perfectly suited. I always prayed in my heart that war would break out in some country, forcing my father to leave for many years instead of just a few months.

Unexpectedly, my wish came true!

Summer, 1990. I was twelve years old that year, living in a two-story house in Washington, D.C. At that time, Saddam Hussein attacked Kuwait. My father's troops were immediately put on red alert, and a month later, they were deployed to the war. When they would return was unknown.

Initially, like other military families, my mother was deeply worried about my father. So, she started attending gatherings with the families and occasionally invited them to our home for meals. However, after a few months, her worries subsided. She began reducing her volunteer work, stopping attending gatherings, and gradually ceasing contact with these families. It seemed she had put my father's wartime situation out of her mind.

By September, she decided to completely sever all ties with these families, staying home except to buy groceries. At home, she always dressed simply, either in pajamas or oversized t-shirts, and her daily activities became simple: watching TV, sitting in the living room, drinking coffee, smoking, daydreaming, or contemplating.

I became her most capable assistant. Every day after school, I would finish my homework first, then see if she needed help. On weekends, I would go shopping with her, happily acting as her helper. In the evenings, I would sit with her on the sofa watching rented movies. I was also her loyal listener; whatever she wanted to talk about, I would always stay with her, even if she was expressing her longing for her father.

Sometimes, she would cry, especially after seeing news reports about the war. At those times, I would gently hold her, stroke her hair, and offer words of comfort. To cheer her up, I would constantly emphasize my love for her, praise her beauty, or share some gossip from school. These topics clearly worked; my gentleness and care made her very grateful, and later, my words even became a driving force in her life.

However, in other aspects, she also began to depend on me. Our outings were simple: going to the drive-thru to buy hamburgers or other fast food from restaurants. The longest we stayed out together was a day in December when we went to pick out Christmas gifts.

Leaving home was easy, but entering was difficult. Before stepping into the house or a room, my mother always made me turn on the light first; otherwise, she'd rather stand in the corner as punishment. She constantly complained of her fear of the dark and strange noises. In this state, it felt as if I were the adult, and she was a child.

In January, my mother's inexplicable phobia worsened because the war had officially begun. She was extremely worried about my father's safety and would watch the news on television whenever she had time. She constantly made me check the mailbox, several times a day, hoping to receive even a word from my father, but also fearing unfortunate news from the government.

In February, when the ground war broke out in full force, she became extremely anxious, complaining of insomnia. Therefore, she asked me to share a bed with her, so she wouldn't be alone in the room. Caring for my mother, I naturally didn't refuse. I thought that after a few nights, my mother's condition would improve. However, the sense of security I gave her was so immense that sharing a bed became a habit. Without her having to ask, I became her nightly guardian.

Of course, I know many children my age resist sleeping with their mothers, but for me, it was incredibly pleasurable. I loved having her lying next to me before I fell asleep, loved waking up in the middle of the night or early morning to see her face immediately. Her body was warm and soft, and her scent always smelled wonderful.

Two weeks before March, the war was officially declared over (we still hadn't received the news from my father), but my nightmares began. Lying next to my mother, I couldn't suppress my erections every night. Naturally, I, in my adolescence, learned to masturbate at this time. I would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night, slip into the bathroom, and masturbate a few times before quietly going back to bed.

I also started having sexual fantasies, usually about Miranda—my classmate, a lovely brown-haired girl. She had a sweet smile and a developing body. In my imagination, I would kiss her passionately, my hands moving on her breasts. I had heard that some classmates in relationships had already started having sex, but I never fantasized about going that far.

I rarely felt guilty about masturbating, only a little ashamed, and worried about my mother finding out and disappointing me. My worst fear was that she would not only catch me masturbating, but also reveal my fantasies. Because in my fantasy world, she had become an indispensable figure.

Don't call me a pervert! After all, she's a beautiful woman, the most important woman in my life, the one who gives me care, encouragement, hugs, and kisses. And she's almost always by my side, whether in the comfort and safety of our home, or even in the same bed.

Furthermore, when she's weak and listless, she always dresses scantily at home. The only constant is the style of her pajamas, which accentuate her figure. What's worse, sometimes she even wears see-through, sheer pajamas, walking around the house. I can't ignore her beautiful breasts stretched out by the clothes, nor can I ignore the prominent nipples on her chest.

I've never seen her naked (I saw her when I was very young, but I don't remember the details anymore), yet the thought of it only intensifies my desire to see her. Fantasizing about her is basically as uninteresting as imagining Marilynda—just kissing and caressing her breasts. The only difference is that with my mother, I dare not...

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There's only one good mom in the world.

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