I was heading to the shower when my mother blocked the doorway. She wore nothing but a white bra-top. “Hey, how’s this?” She stood in front of the mirror, yanking the fabric tighter as if she wanted to tear her own breasts off. That was my mother. Of all days, of all people to ask. “Take a look. Still passable?”
I turned my head. I turned it, but it was too late—I’d already seen that look. Her eyes slid over me, assessing, pricing. Not her son, but something to be measured.
When did I start waiting for this look?
Questions Trapped Inside a White Bra
After that day, every time she looked at me her eyes flashed—apologetic yet daring. “Eat.” An ordinary word, but beneath it another question pulsed: I’m still all right, aren’t I?
My tongue went dry. The spoon in her hand trembled. I couldn’t tell whether it was a utensil or a summons.
The Night She Sang at the Wedding
“Mrs. Jihun, could you…?” A neighborhood friend’s wedding. She wore a black dress, the neckline hinting at shadows. The aunties whispered: “Still so pretty.” “All dressed up with no husband…” Their words tickled my ears like You made me this way.
When the congratulatory songs began, she stepped onstage and lifted the microphone.
I listened and thought: This isn’t a toast—it’s a love song for me.
She stared straight at me. No—through me. The heat of it forced my head down.
A Finger Above the Kneecap
“Mom, is your knee okay?” She’d been complaining. I offered a massage. She lay on the living-room floor; I cradled her leg. At first I was careful.
“Here?”
“Yes, right there.”
She closed her eyes. I kneaded, then my finger drifted—just above the kneecap, then a little higher. Her breathing changed.
Is this the wrong step, or were we already lost long before?
I pulled my hand away. She opened her eyes. Neither of us spoke. We simply existed, suspended in that moment.
My Sister’s Call
“Jihun, something’s off with Mom,” my sister said from the countryside.
“Like what?”
“When you come home for break, she dolls herself up before going out—like she wants to look beautiful. And she keeps staring at your photo. Her eyes… they’re strange.”
Why She Changed
Five years since Dad left. Mother is no longer a guardian; she has become a woman again. And that woman’s gaze has fixed on me.
Psychologists say loss and loneliness can awaken forbidden desires. That can’t be the whole story.
Perhaps she and I were both waiting for this moment from the beginning.
One Final Question
That evening she smiled at me once more. Within the smile lived both a mother’s love and a woman’s demand.
Is the change in her eyes her doing—or mine, because I craved it?
I closed the door and stood alone. Her gaze still burned in the darkness. It was undeniably taboo. Yet I loathed myself for struggling to preserve it.
If you were here, how would you endure that gaze? And how could you keep pretending you don’t long for it?