Memoirs of an Incestuous Mother

The hospital blankets are always so white, with a faint smell of disinfectant. Every day, I lie in bed,
warm and cozy , watching the sunlight slowly slip away from the windowsill. Last night,
I suddenly and inexplicably heard the cry of wild geese. I don't know if it was a hallucination or if geese were really flying by. Anyway,
I suddenly woke up, remembering Yan Shu's poem, "A sweet dream frequently interrupted, from where does the cry of a wild goose come from?" I sat up and cried.

I know I miss my son who is far away in the south. Perhaps my days are numbered. Looking at my sister
's face, her smile is as bitter as a gourd; I can guess. My longing for him is like a leech stuck to my heart,
tearing at me, making me as vulnerable as a child. I can't find anyone to confide in. Who can I confide in? Should I destroy my son
? When the pain keeps churning, sometimes my chest feels so tight I can't breathe, I often wonder,
why hasn't God taken me away yet?

I

was born in a small county town. My father was a mid-level cadre, a retired soldier. My mother was illiterate,
but very intelligent—much more intelligent than my father. In those days, living in this compound instilled a great
sense of vanity. When classmates were in school, they always formed small cliques, intentionally or unintentionally. Our neighborhood
kids were the envy of others, which made us less inclined to socialize.

Xiaowen and I were inseparable. He was a very quiet boy, mostly
still, even somewhat effeminate. But I liked him because he was particularly popular with adults. I
never understood if my feelings were related to this. However, I'm very perceptive of subtle hints; I could understand
what my parents wanted me to do and who they wanted me to be with.

I was the kind of girl whose sexual awareness developed very early. At four or five, I secretly thought about sex
. Xiaowen was sometimes oblivious. When we played house, he never understood
what it meant to be a couple, but I did. I'd heard my parents having sex, but I'd never seen it. Until puberty
, I stubbornly believed that sex was done standing up. So, countless times, standing, I'd pull his little
penis inside me. He was interested, but also scared. He'd always look
around warily as I watched his long, stretched-out penis.

Once, perhaps around six years old, we were talking in an abandoned house when I suddenly needed to pee. I
didn't think there was any need to hide it from him, so I went to the corner. Just then, an auntie came in. "What are you doing?" she asked.
He blushed, looking like he was about to run away. I didn't say anything, pulled up my pants, and calmly said,
"Peeing." She didn't suspect anything; after all, we were just kids. She told my parents.

My father had a fiery temper, no matter who he was talking to. At dinner, he'd ask me with a dark face,
slamming his chopsticks on the table. I didn't say anything. My mother then said, "It's just peeing, you little kid." My mother
was that kind of woman; her indulgence of others reached the point of deceiving herself. I think she must have known
about the sexual experiments between Xiaowen and me, but she always seemed to deliberately believe I was an innocent child.
Speaking of them, I don't know how they got together. They were never happy. My memories
are filled with endless arguments. I always suspected my father of having affairs, and I always suspected he might want to
poison us all.

How does time slip away? Perhaps like the sunlight outside the window. I remember the last time I saw Xiaowen's penis
, it was still about the size of my little finger, sickly crawling between his legs, just like him. Because of him,
he was always so kind to me, telling me stories, playing house with me; my childhood was happy. Although
I can't remember if I ever secretly planned to marry him.

2.

When I was in junior high school, I developed very early. Let's not recall my first period. My mother was gentle and considerate
; she handled these problems with great care. In my second year of junior high, my breasts started to develop, and sparse
yellow hair began to sprout down there, like the hair on a newborn baby's head, or like newly sprouted leaves in spring.
At this time, Xiaowen (my husband) hardly spoke to me anymore. Boys and girls are different, and we weren't exactly unconventional.
It seemed like everyone had suddenly forgotten all the past events.

I've always considered myself an intelligent woman, at least in terms of academics. When it came time for university entrance exams,
I went to the provincial teachers' college.

But I was rebellious, a rebellion like a hidden volcano that never manifested in junior high or high school
, all because of my mother. My mother was an unhappy woman; she poured all her energy into arguing with my father. I'm
certain she didn't love him. Because she was sensitive and imaginative. But my father was always so careless and short-tempered
.

Once, during a trip back to the county town, I met my current husband by chance. He didn't have a proper job
and loved to fight. I always had a great deal of admiration for his fighting. I thought that's how men should be.
The first time I saw him, he was wearing a very cheap, shabby shirt. He didn't talk much, but someone secretly told me
he might have been beaten. Then I thought of Xiaowen, that weak boy, who had gone to university in the south.

His arms were thick, and he spoke rudely, but not much. When he saw us, he seemed a little reserved
. His parents were small business owners. That was all I knew. My father seemed even more perceptive than I was.
At mealtimes, just like when I was a child, he glared at me and shouted, "You're not allowed to associate with this kind of thug!"
This time it was different; my mother chimed in.

After graduating from university, we went back to the county to teach and got married. I saw my mother's tears. Does not having a job equate to
happiness? Could her and my father's life be called happy? My father's job was quite good.

At that time, I liked him. I thought that's what a man should be like. "Even if heartlessly abandoned, one should not be ashamed."

Three

years later, my son was born. I was 23 years old that year.

Sometimes, unhappy families follow similar patterns of unhappiness. The huge differences between my husband and me made
it impossible for us to get along. Gradually, I became sexually frigid. I couldn't accept that he always tried
to resolve all our arguments through sex. He would take my frustrations and anger out on me, roughly pulling me over and forcefully penetrating
me. My vagina was dry, and every thrust was painful. Sometimes, because of his roughness...
The pain Lu inflicted would make me cry out, but he thought I was experiencing pleasure and was just suppressing my feelings.

Sometimes, I think it's strange how fate makes women's cries of extreme pain and extreme pleasure
so strikingly similar. We had harmonious sex; I loved the feeling of being conquered. He would enter
my territory hard, like a hot poker, enveloping me in heat. Everything around us was wet, our
skin pressed together without any gaps. I couldn't predict how deep or shallow his next thrust would be; the anticipation made me want to
scream. Perhaps it would be a sudden, heavy impact on my cervix, like playing billiards. Or perhaps it would just be
a gentle at my vaginal opening, and my whole body would react like that below, afraid he would slip out, so I
would cling tightly to his body.

Because of my frigidity, he suspected I was having an affair.

When sex could no longer resolve our conflicts, we divorced. My

five

-year-old son wouldn't care for him. He had never held him, and even doubted whether he was his biological son. His
volatile temper made our son quiet and sensitive. We're divorced and live close to my parents; we're very happy. Although
people often make advances towards me, they don't go too far under my father's authority. But my mother is far more
anxious than others. Seeing my reluctance, she reverted to her previous indulgence and stopped bringing it up.

My son is my whole life. Every day I tell him stories, cook, feed him, wash his feet,
bathe him, and lull him to sleep. Life is peaceful and happy. My son's personality is gradually becoming more outgoing. Actually, he's
as talkative as I am, and like his grandmother, he's full of fantasies.

Sometimes, I'm sexually frustrated. A woman not even thirty. How could I not be? My son is very mischievous. In
bed, he often wriggles around. When he hugs my breasts, I feel them bouncing. His
legs are restless; he'll suddenly kick my groin, and I'm instantly transported back to the embarrassment and excitement of my youth
. In the cold winter, when we first get into bed, I often put his feet between my legs to warm me.

When I had something to do, I would leave my child with my mother. One day, my mother told me, "You can't let the child touch your breasts anymore.
He's so big now, he's in first grade." I said, "Okay." But I didn't really care.

When my son was asleep, I often tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I would gently move his hand away from my breast. Often, he
would hug me even tighter. So I would want to masturbate but was afraid of waking him. Once, I secretly looked at his penis and thought of
my own childhood. I frantically inserted my fingers into my genitals, looking at my son's penis, and reached an unprecedented
orgasm. I felt like I was going to lie down and put something like a peanut in my mouth. I
washed him so clean every night before bed. But I didn't dare. He's my son. I told myself that every time.

5

As he grew up, I changed his habit of touching my breasts. I also made him wear underwear to bed.
By the time he graduated from elementary school, I tried my best to let him bathe himself, and I would occasionally scrub his back, but I never bathed with him anymore
. I wanted to avoid him seeing me. He seemed to know why. He's a precocious child, probably
around my age. I remember when he was little, he cried when he saw his ex-husband on top of me. I don't
know if he was old enough to remember then, but I think he should.

Many past events, perhaps like my childhood, are always remembered, but we always pretend to forget them.

One morning, when I got up, I suddenly felt something hard touch my back. With a
woman's intuition, I turned around and saw he was still asleep. I lifted the covers and saw the little tent in his underwear.
A strange feeling rose in my heart. I got up without waking him. I thought it was time for them to sleep separately.
Thinking about it carefully, his voice was changing, and maybe there was some pubic hair down there. I really wanted to go back and sneak a peek, but
I held back. I couldn't be such a dirty mother. While showering, I masturbated, thinking about his little tent,
maybe the sparse pubic hair.

He didn't want to sleep in his own room. But it wasn't up to him.

With his own room and life, I discovered that my son had started writing a diary. He locked his diary in the drawer,
and then secretly hid the drawer key behind his teddy bear. I knew his habits. I could guess where he
would hide the key. But I pretended not to know. I thought he should have his own life.

When he came home from school, sometimes he would talk about his female classmates, and I would feel a pang of jealousy. I was afraid my son would
drift further and further away, but then I thought, what's there to be afraid of? He's my son. I should let him grow up. I
never criticized him for anything he said, such as if a female classmate looked at him, talked to him a few more times, or if he liked her a little
. I would always smile, pat his head, and tell him: "Mom believes in you."

I really believed him; he did very well in school. It seems he inherited my genes. After the divorce, he
became more and more sensible, always eager to do chores, including the heavy work at my parents' house. My father's lifelong stubbornness
vanished after seeing this grandson. The two of them got along very well. They played chess, went fishing, and chatted and laughed.
If I told him how badly his grandfather was when I was a child, he would never believe me.

In his final

year of junior high, the studies were already very demanding. He was starting to look like a man. A lot of facial hair had grown on him
. He didn't want to shave it, and would come home every day asking me, "Mom, look how long my beard has grown!" I would just smile and say, "My
son's grown up." Watching him skip and jump into his bedroom, I realized he was almost 1.8 meters tall. His shoulders
were broad, and his calves were thick. Even though he always wore sportswear, always laughing and joking, he didn't walk like a grown
man. But I knew that behind his laughter was a sensitivity inherited from me.

One day while showering, I suddenly felt a shadow and heard breathing outside the door, so I was surprised. I knew it
must be him. So I shouted his name and asked him to check if the water in the kitchen was boiling. I saw a figure
flash by outside the door, and then he said, "No water." Sure enough, it was him. I suddenly didn't know what to do.
I thought it must be more than the first time he'd spied on me while I showered.

Should I criticize him, have a heart-to-heart talk, or pretend I didn't know?

That night, I couldn't sleep. How should I correct him?

7

I decided to secretly read his diary.

In his diary, he recorded his deep self-reproach. The unease he felt after each time he secretly read something and masturbated. I
felt so heartbroken. Son, you are my life. I so desperately want you to grow up healthy, both
mentally and physically. I know you didn't mean it, and I know you love me. But this is wrong. I
so desperately want you to be happy. I want you to get out of this abnormal state.

One day, I smelled that familiar scent of semen on my underwear. Yes, it must have been him again. Suddenly
, I was even more at a loss. There was fluid from my genitals on my underwear. Next to it, there was a small clump of
dried . So clear and regular. Suddenly, I became excited, holding the underwear to
my nose and inhaling deeply, as if trying to absorb all the scent at once. Finally, I licked it with my tongue,
finding it so stimulating, feeling a gush of fluid flowing down my genitals. I took off my clothes, placed my underwear on the pillow,
and bit and licked it forcefully, while simultaneously thrusting my other hand inside, moving it rapidly. I softly called my son's nickname,
rubbing my breasts vigorously on the sheets.

When I got up, I saw a large wet patch on the bed. For so many years, how much I had needed a man.
Facing the large wet patch, I cried. I cried with such grievance. For almost twenty years, I hadn't smelled a man
's scent. Today, I smelled it—from secretly smelling the semen stains on my son's masturbated underwear.

So, I tried to keep my underwear out of the bathroom or on the balcony, keeping it in the bedroom. However,
I also unconsciously became more conscious of my appearance. I changed my underwear to conservative and elegant styles, paying special attention to hygiene
to prevent any odor. I knew he liked the kind with embroidered flowers, so I bought many of those, in various
light colors—light pink, light green, light purple.

8.

He got into the prestigious high school where I teach. I had told him beforehand that I wouldn't pull any strings for him; I hoped he
would prove himself through his own abilities. Actually, I knew he wouldn't let me down.

The results hadn't been released yet, so I went to the Education Bureau to see them. The section chief was an old classmate of mine.
He saw me from afar: "No need to say anything, haha, here to see your precious son's results." I said yes. The results came out quickly, and
we sat in the office analyzing which subjects he was strong in and which he was weak in. Then I went home early.

On the way, I bought him lots of his favorite snacks. It was a hot summer day, and I didn't forget to buy him
an ice cream, which was still a relatively luxurious treat at the time.

He was waiting at home. I casually told him, "You should have gotten in." He jumped up, hugged me, and
kissed me on the cheek.

"Mom, I didn't let you down, did I?"

I smiled. "No, but you still need to keep working hard."

I felt great that day, so I took out a beer and we chatted and drank. I talked about the hardships of the past few years and
encouraged him to study hard and not let me down. The two of us shared a bottle of beer and chatted until midnight. Suddenly, I felt
incredibly sleepy. I told him, "Mom's very happy today, but I'm really tired. You should get ready." Mom
went to sleep first.

In my hazy state, I felt someone undressing me. I recognized his familiar scent and knew it was my son.
I wanted to sit up, but I held back. If I got up, given his sensitivity, what kind
of harm would he suffer?

He carefully tried to unhook my bra, but gave up. He then placed his hand directly
on my breast and gently stroked it a few times. His hand was no longer the chubby little hand of my childhood; it had become large and strong.
Although it was extremely gentle, I could still feel the strength. He pulled down my underwear, but his buttocks were pressing down on it, and he couldn't pull it down
. I heard his rapid breathing because he saw my pubic hair. His warm breath stirred my pubic hair,
making me feel itchy and excited. I felt my lower body was already wet.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I pretended to roll over, so he could push my underwear down
under his buttocks. Then, when I rolled back over, he could take off my underwear. As I lay on my side,
I felt his lips moving across my buttocks. I wondered if he saw the discharge flowing
down thigh, like tears sliding down a face. Cool and
slippery, the traces made me even more sensitive. His breath felt cool against my skin.

Finally, he took off my underwear. I lay on my back in the dark room. I kept my eyes closed,
refusing to open them. I heard him unbuckling his belt. Then I felt him carefully
touch my clitoris, down to my vagina, along my pubic hair. Suddenly, he climbed on top of me and started thrusting haphazardly.
He didn't know where to insert it, just recklessly, like a fly trapped in a bottle,
randomly inserting it into my vagina, urethra, or vaginal opening. Then, I felt a wave of heat spray onto my vulva.
At that moment, I so wanted to scream.

He took out some toilet paper and started wiping my genitals. While wiping, he held a flashlight and carefully examined my
genitals. I think he was just curious. I couldn't see the flashlight, but I heard him take it. But after hearing it turn on,
I felt as if the light was shining on my vulva, and it felt really warm. The small, round beam of the flashlight felt like
a small, round, hot stove warming my skin.

Later

, I learned from his diary that he had given me a sleeping pill. His diary entries were contradictory; he was afraid that
too much would hurt me, and afraid that too little would wake me up. So he took a dose of one pill himself and tested it for a long time, making sure
one sleeping pill wouldn't cause any problems before giving it to me at that moment. My son, he's still so thoughtful. This kind of thoughtful
concern made me cry so hard I felt like I was going to vomit blood. I know I should correct him. But I don't know how. Do you know
that Mom loves you, so I can't let you do this?

After this incident, I became even more careful. And even more careful was that I couldn't let him find out that I knew
. Before I knew it,

he was in his second year of high school, and his grades were getting better and better, with a high chance of
getting
into Tsinghua or Peking University. I was increasingly happy, because I was careful. Occasionally, he would peek at me while I showered or masturbate with my underwear. I usually pretended not to notice. I believed he would understand when he grew up and went to university, and he would correct himself.

One day, his homeroom teacher told me, "Your child has a cold; let him rest." I...
I was so worried. I rushed him home. After his afternoon classes, I hurried home.

He was lying in bed, looking very anxious. I touched his head; it was a little hot.

I said, "Don't worry, son, I'll have them make up for the lessons you missed."

He looked up at me and said, "Mom, can you sit here and chat?" I said, "Sure, but we have to
cook first. After we eat, we can chat." His face lit up with that familiar childlike smile. He looked very content and
took a nap.

That evening, I sat by his bed, and he held my hand, talking about his class and his future plans
. Lately, he suddenly said, "Mom, I want to sleep with you tonight."

I was startled, but didn't know what to say. I said, "No, you're a big boy now."

He pouted and whine.

I gave in. So, he happily grabbed his IV drip and blanket and ran to my bedroom before me.

For a long time, I didn't dare sleep. I was afraid I would lose my temper, or my son would lose his temper and do something.
I was so sleepy that I fell asleep, and in my hazy state, I had a sexual dream, the protagonist being my son. I woke up startled, thankfully,
my son was asleep beside me.

Now, thinking back, I finally understand that sometimes, if you have a premonition of what's going to happen, the best
way is to prevent it in advance. If you do something, it means you expect it.

In the middle of the night, I felt him climb into my bed. I didn't move, still pretending to be asleep. I was wearing pajamas, and
he easily unbuttoned my top. Then he carefully pulled down my pajama bottoms. I don't know if it was
because of my cooperation, but the bottoms came off easily. He was still like before, not quite finding the right spot, but I could feel
him first using his hand to part my labia, carefully testing my clitoris.

He penetrated me. At that moment, I felt completely filled. For almost 20 years, because of
the emptiness below, I felt as empty in my heart as below. At that moment, I felt an immense surge of strength throughout my body.
I tightly enveloped him with my lower body. It was as if he had come from here before, and now it felt like he was going back.
His penis was large, and when it plunged deep inside, hitting my cervix, it felt as if the place that had nurtured him was
overwhelmed with excitement.

Suddenly, I hugged him and kissed him. I knew my madness was like an
explosion of 20 years of pent-up emotions, and he didn't seem to fully realize what was happening to me. His hands excitedly kneaded my breasts, and
I moaned. I stroked him tightly, gripping his back tightly. This was the treasure I had created myself, now so
tightly intertwined with me. Each thrust felt like I was about to faint.

Finally, I felt the pulsation of his penis and heard him let out a low moan. Then he quietly lay on top of me
, biting my nipple, just like he did when he was a child, biting one while his other hand touched or protected
the other .

I kept my eyes closed.

He pulled out, and a huge emptiness struck me again. Tears streamed down my face. He got up and sat
beside me. I opened my eyes and saw his drooping head in the darkness.

He knelt beside me and took my hand. He stammered, "I'm sorry, Mom." I just cried. I didn't
say a word.

The

next morning, I found he had already gone back to his room. Neither of us mentioned that night.
Reading his diary again, I saw endless regret.

I wanted to tell him that Mom was wrong too. But I was afraid of making mistakes, like Pandora's box. We
remained coldly estranged after he graduated from high school. Several times, he cried to his mother, but wouldn't say why. His mother just kept
saying, "Don't put too much pressure on the child, don't put too much pressure on the child."

The day he received his acceptance letter from a university in the south, he said he wanted to go south, to change his environment. I said, "Okay.
Go . Never come back." I saw tears in his eyes again. Who understood his vulnerability better than me?

I held back my tears and told him: "Son, Mom loves you. Mom hates you."

The morning he left, I got up early and hid in my bedroom. I heard him standing at the door, crying
, saying to me, "Mom, I'm leaving. I love you, Mom." I'd spend my whole life repenting.

Son, perhaps it's all my fault.

I know you're pursuing a PhD, and I know you haven't had a girlfriend. With your talent, a girlfriend shouldn't be a problem
. Your inability to forgive yourself is actually tormenting me. I don't want you to come back because I want you
to grow up normally, not because I can't forgive you.

If I die, can you take these buried memories with you?

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