The Mother Under the Guise of a Wealthy Family [Full Text]

The Mother Under the Rich Family

[Full Text]
Word Count: 26663

I kept masturbating outside the bathroom door, imagining my mother's body bathing inside. The bathroom
steam and the scent of her bath products seeped out through the gap in the vent under the door. Even though I was greedily squatting on the ground, I
couldn't see anything. I listened to the sound of the flushing water, the water flowing from my hair and face, down my breasts, from my cleavage down my pubic
hair, then gathering at my vulva, flowing down my inner thighs, the droplet sliding down
my thighs and calves, finally stopping briefly on the instep before flowing into the drain.

My family home is located in a high-end residential area of Tianmu, in a twelve-story building. My apartment is a duplex,
filled with a classic European atmosphere, and decorated with art pieces everywhere. My father is a financial actuary who often travels
abroad to visit clients. The second floor was my mother's and my room. Every time my mother finished showering, she would come
out wrapped in a towel, not fully covered, leaving her breasts partially exposed. Water droplets would drip onto her fleshy buttocks as she walked, and with
the swaying of her hips, I, hiding in the corner, would watch with even greater fervor.

Although the family seemed happy, my mother and father had long been estranged. It wasn't just because of her work in Kansai;
more importantly , my father's family believed that my mother had only married into
the family for money and to climb the social ladder. So, because of relatives, my mother had long been used to being alone. Occasionally, she would go to the bookstore to read or go shopping,
or at home, she would go to the music room to play her favorite piano. Although they were all simple pieces,
her fingering was fluent and her playing was smooth. Sometimes I would look out from the large floor-to-ceiling window in the music room at the small balcony in front of the window,
where my mother had planted all kinds of flowers and plants. Through the afterglow of the setting sun, a golden glow
would shine on the flowers.

I watched the warm afterglow, time slowly shifting across the flowers, until the entire sunset
cast . Standing on the garden balcony, the light and shadow on the windows resembled a gateway to heaven, with
aluminum frames on the glass. These were two large rectangular pieces of soundproof glass, their aluminum frames, decorative items of
an unknown material, like reliefs in a Roman church. Bathed in light,
the reflection in the windows was even more beautiful.

I wondered if my mother also had a door in her heart, a door called loneliness, long since
closed and locked with a heavy iron lock. My mother's fingers pressed the piano keys, the hammers striking the strings, playing a low, melancholic
moonlight sonata. The music mirrored her state of mind—the feeling of being neglected by her father, the resentment of being scolded by her in-laws.

From the moment she married, she had already lost the most brilliant golden years of her life. I forgot my mother's face,
her brows furrowed. Looking at everything in the music room, I couldn't help but feel a lump in my throat. I turned to the balcony, gazing at the setting sun, and told myself, I must take my mother away from this home, away from this cold prison that has imprisoned
her for almost twenty years . 　　"Knock, knock, knock!" A knock sounded on my palm-wood door. It was the maid, Sasaya, reminding me to come downstairs for dinner. Sasaya was an Indian woman, very young, a year or two younger than me. Last year, when I was eighteen, I went on a family trip to Jamaica Mosque in India, and then to the Taj Mahal. As my mother and I walked behind my father, who was chatting and laughing with my grandmother and some relatives, it was a completely different, cold world for my mother and me. One family group, two different feelings—I followed my mother to the Taj Mahal. 　　Tourists came and went nearby. My mother gazed thoughtfully I casually responded to the other family members' chatter; perhaps because I was the eldest and only son, the other relatives were less averse to me. I wondered to myself, was my mother feeling the same way I was? The tour guide explained that the Taj Mahal was built by Shah Jahan, the fifth ruler of the Mughal Empire, in memory of his wife, Taj Than .

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