Mother’s Secret Desire

If you were to ask me today why I fell in love with my son, I couldn’t even begin to explain it rationally. The best explanation I could give that made sense was that he was there to care for me when nobody else would.

Let me back up just a bit. I have seizures. A lot of them. Most of them are small, but every once in a while, I’ll get one that’s so bad that it knocks out my motor functions for a while; I can’t even open a bottle of cola, at times. Other times, I lose the ability to speak for a few hours, sometimes even up to a day or so. But despite all that, for some reason or another, mostly bureaucratic bullshit, I can’t get disability for the longest time.

So while I’ve taken a few small jobs, mainly things that don’t require too much strenuous activity, like a convenience store clerk, I’ve predominantly had to rely on whoever I was with to take care of me. And nearly all of them were assholes who just wanted one thing in return. I honestly can’t say I blame them; a full-figured woman with a size 16 body, a round ass, and 40DD breasts, I’d want a piece of that, too. And I’m a horny bitch, as well. I masturbate nearly all the time, so I don’t mind getting some “D” where I can, but I’d rather not be someone’s fuck slave.

Finally, right around the time my son, Jackson, graduated high school, I got approved for disability. I decided to try living on my own for a change. I got a small studio apartment and Jackson moved in with his longtime girlfriend.

Things were fine for a few years; Jackson came by quite often to check up on me, make sure I was doing okay and didn’t have any bad seizures. However, things soon soured between him and his girlfriend, and they broke it off. This left Jackson with an apartment and bills that he could barely afford on his own. And he had just renewed the lease, too, so he was stuck there for another year.

I think it was actually my idea to move in with Jackson. For starters, Jackson was probably the only person I truly trusted to take care of me, as he had done it for years when he was at home. And helping him with rent on his place would actually be cheaper than my current living situation.

Jackson’s apartment was only a one-bedroom, but the living room was spacious enough for me to put most of my bedroom stuff there. My bed was pressed against the wall that divided the living room and the kitchen, and Jackson had taken it upon himself to install a small cabinet nearby for all of my pills and medications.

After a few months of living with Jackson, I’d already had maybe two or three seizures. Jackson went in to work around noon, but he would always check on me first thing in the morning because that was when I had most of them. If Jackson saw me having one, the first thing he would do is take my hand so that, when I came out of it, I’d always know he was there, and I would squeeze it to let him know I was responsive. Many of my seizures wouldn’t last longer than a few seconds, but there was one that was particularly rough.

I don’t remember when I have a seizure; usually Jackson will tell me afterwards, or I’ll realize that I’ve had one by noting my lack of motor functions, or any slight impairment of my speech, both of which are extremely common. That particular morning, Jackson came down to check on me as normal, and I’d informed him that I wasn’t feeling well. He got me a drink and went back upstairs, saying he would check on me again in about five minutes.

It seemed like only a couple seconds later that I felt Jackson’s hand in mine, and he was calling out, “Mom! Mom!” It was distant, though, like he was miles away from me. My vision, which was blurry, slowly started to clear up. I finally saw him leaning over me; one hand was gripping mine, and his other hand was on my collarbone, just above my left breast.

“Mom, can you hear me?” he asked. “Squeeze my hand if you can.” I squeezed his hand as hard as I could, which wasn’t very hard at all. He felt it, however, because his face, his whole body, relaxed, and he let out a breath of relief. He was still worried, however; that look never disappeared from his face. He lifted his hand from my collarbone, and I realized that my heart had been beating quite rapidly. I wasn’t sure if it was from the seizure, or from Jackson’s touch.
Jackson gave me my meds, which I hadn’t taken yet, and got me a cup of water to take them with.

“Here,” he said.