Although the drinking session lasted quite a while, each of them only had about half a pound of alcohol.
My mother often goes out for social engagements, so this amount shouldn't have been a problem at all. Yet today, she seemed slightly tipsy.
In contrast, Aunt Rong, aside from her rosy cheeks, showed no signs of being affected at all.
After seeing Aunt Rong off, my mother was already a bit dizzy and unsteady on her feet, as if she were walking on cotton, light and wobbly.
I helped my mother back to her bedroom. As soon as we entered the room, she pushed me out with her hand and warned, "Don't come in."
Only then did I remember the rule she had set for me in the morning, and I quickly said, "I won't, I won't."
My mother's fair, snow-like complexion, with its translucent, jade-like skin, was tinged with a faint red, like a ripe apple. It was unexpectedly adorable.
She stared at me for a moment before walking out. I was taken aback, thinking she was too drunk to tell directions, and hurriedly asked, "Mom, you're going the wrong way."
"I'm going to the bathroom," she said, swaying unsteadily as she took a few steps before turning back to glare at me. "Don't follow me."
How would I dare?
Over the next few days, my mother often came home late and drunk, claiming it was for social engagements. But deep down, I knew it was just an excuse. She was drowning her sorrows in alcohol, trying to dispel the troubles in her heart.
It wasn't until Sunday morning, when my mother got up, clutching her stomach with a pale face, furrowed brows, and a sickly expression, that I realized something was wrong.
It didn't take much guessing to know her old ailment had flared up again. I hurried to the kitchen to cook some warm porridge to soothe her stomach.
For the entire morning, my mother lay curled up on the sofa, listless, hugging a pillow, not even in the mood to play with her phone.
Feeling both heartbroken and anxious, I crouched in front of her and said softly, "Mom, let me take you to the hospital."
"No need," she replied with a pained expression. "Go study. Don't worry about me."
"How can I study when you're like this?"
I reached out to pull her up, but she refused to budge. Growing impatient, I plopped down beside her and threatened, "If you don't go, I'll just sit here."
My mother sighed wearily, got up, went back to her room to change into her coat, and accompanied by me, headed to the nearby hospital.
After the examination, the doctor said it was due to emotional instability, which led to excessive stomach acid secretion, combined with heavy drinking that irritated the stomach lining.
As long as my mother could stay in a good mood, avoid alcohol, eat less greasy food, and follow the prescribed medication, she would recover quickly.
Back home, my mother went to her room to rest. In the evening, I cooked some millet porridge and, afraid that my own cooking wouldn't taste good, ordered two light dishes for delivery.
Carrying the dinner, I knocked on her bedroom door.
"What is it?" my mother asked weakly from inside.
"I brought you dinner."
"Come in."
I turned the doorknob, intending to bring the food to her bedside. But just as I was about to step inside, I suddenly remembered the rule she had set and lowered my raised foot.
My mother, lying in bed, turned to look at me and asked, puzzled, "What are you doing standing at the door?"
"You said I wasn't allowed in your room."
"Come in."
"But you told me to come in."
Mom sighed impatiently, "I did tell you to come in."
Only then did I step inside, bringing the meal to the bedside and placing it on the nightstand. Mom sat up, leaning against the headboard, picked up the bowl of rice porridge, and took a couple of sips.
"How... does it taste?" I asked cautiously.
"Mmm. There's improvement."
"Alright then, I'll make it for you every day from now on."
"Do you really want to switch careers and sell breakfast?"
"Having an extra skill never hurts. Who knows, maybe in the future, with this skill, I could marry a wife as beautiful as Mom, just like Dad did."
Mom was holding a bowl, scooping up a spoonful of porridge when she heard my words. She froze mid-air, lifting her eyes to stare at me.
I felt the joke had gone too far and quickly turned my head away, coughing twice to hide my embarrassment.
After a moment of silence, Mom asked, "What are you still doing here?"
"Watching you eat porridge."
"What's so interesting about eating porridge? Get out."
"Didn't you tell me to come in?"
"I told you to come in, not to stand here."
I felt Mom was being unreasonable, but there was no way to argue. After all, she was the one in charge.
Over the next few days, I researched a lot and carefully prepared various nourishing and stomach-soothing porridges for Mom. Although her stomach issues improved somewhat, they still didn't fully heal.
To help Mom recover sooner, after resting for a while after dinner, I suggested going out for a walk.
Mom lay on the sofa, not wanting to move at all. I urged, "A walk after a meal helps you live to ninety-nine. The doctor also recommended you exercise more."
Mom rolled over on the sofa, mumbling, "Exercising right after eating makes my stomach feel worse."
"It's been almost an hour since we finished eating. Aren't you worried about your stomach lying here like this?"
"No, it's very comfortable." Mom hugged the pillow tightly, her tone even carrying a hint of coquettishness.
"Hmm... Aren't you afraid of gaining weight then?"
...
After a moment of silence, Mom sat up from the sofa and gave me a sidelong glance. "Looks like you're asking for another beating."
"Ah, I'm just doing this for your own good. I'm even sacrificing my study time to accompany you on a walk."
After my persistent persuasion, Mom reluctantly went back to her room to change clothes.
As the weather was gradually warming up, Mom put on a floral-print maxi dress and a pair of flat shoes. Her long hair was loose, draped over her shoulder, making her look very young and exuding an elegant, intellectual charm.
"Wow~!" I clapped and praised, "Where did this beautiful big sister come from?"
"Shut your mouth." Mom wasn't buying it this time and stepped out of the house. I quickly followed.
There were quite a few people walking on the street. Mom didn't say a word the whole way, strolling slowly ahead while I carefully accompanied her.
Feeling the atmosphere was a bit awkward, I was thinking of a topic to break the ice when Mom suddenly asked, "How's your studying going lately?"
"Hmm, it's okay, I guess."
"Still thinking about getting into Tsinghua?"
I hesitated for a moment and said, "Mom, there's something I want to discuss with you."
Mom turned her head to look at me. "Go on."
"I still want to aim for Tsinghua, but there's been so much going on lately, and my mind is all over the place. Plus, there isn't much time left. I was thinking, maybe I should study for another year."
"You haven't even taken the exam yet, and you're already giving up?"
"I'm just giving you a heads-up. What if I don't do well on the exam, and you get angry again, and your stomach problems flare up?"
Mom's expression remained unchanged, and I couldn't tell what she was thinking. I guessed she probably agreed with me deep down.
We walked a bit further and saw a crowd gathered by the roadside, clapping and cheering loudly. As we got closer, I realized it was a "martial arts performance."
A burly man, dressed in bulky clothing and wearing a boxing headgear, was being pummeled in the face by a middle-aged man wearing boxing gloves. A sign next to them read: "50 yuan for five minutes of getting hit."
With every punch the middle-aged man landed on the other's face, the man would let out an exaggerated cry and stagger backward, his movements so dramatic it looked as though he were being knocked flying.
The middle-aged man grew more and more excited as he continued, while the onlookers around them cheered and egged him on.
After watching for a while, my mother said with little interest, "Let's go. There's nothing interesting about this." With that, she turned and continued walking.
Suddenly inspired, I caught up to her and asked, "Mom, how about you try a few punches too?"
She scoffed, "Are you crazy? Why would I hit someone?"
"To relieve stress. Didn't the doctor say your stomach issues are caused by poor mood? You could vent a bit and ease the tension."
Mom shook her head with a cold expression. "I'm not tense at all, and I have no stress. I don't want to hit anyone either."
Following behind her, I hesitated for a moment before asking tentatively, "Mom, aren't you really upset at all about divorcing Dad?"
"Why should I be upset?"
"I think sometimes it's better to let things out rather than keep them bottled up. Even if it doesn't solve the problem, at least it makes you feel better. That thing just now was pretty good—fifty yuan for five minutes, you can hit as much as you want, let out all your anger."
Mom suddenly stopped in her tracks and turned to look at me. "How about this: I'll give you a hundred yuan, and you let me hit you for ten minutes."
"Would hitting me make you happy?"
"Of course I'd be happy, incredibly happy."
Mom was clearly joking, letting out two fake laughs before turning and continuing her stroll.
But I kept the idea in mind. After returning home, I ordered a set of protective gear for sparring and two pairs of boxing gloves online.
Three days later, the package arrived. After dinner that evening, I went back to my bedroom and put on the protective gear. I looked round and bulky, like a big bear, appearing quite cumbersome.
Carrying the boxing gloves, I waddled into the living room.
When Mom saw me, she frowned and asked in surprise, "What are you doing?"
I walked up to her and handed her the boxing gloves. "Didn't you say a hundred yuan for ten minutes? I'm here to earn your money."
Mom blinked several times before finally understanding. She burst out laughing. "You're crazy."
"You have to keep your word. I've already bought the gear. Come on, hurry up, hit me, come on!" As I spoke, I shoved the gloves into her hands.
Mom rolled her eyes, threw the gloves back at me, and said, "You're insane," before turning to head back to her room.
I quickly caught up, grabbed her hand, and said, "Just one hit, please, just one."
Mom turned around, both amused and exasperated. "You really... It's been a while since I hit you, are you itching for it again?"
"Yes, yes, I'm asking for it, I'm itching for it. Come on, hit me."
Completely worn down by my persistence, Mom finally put on the boxing gloves under my guidance. She stared at me, looking somewhat lost, and after a long pause, suddenly asked, "How do I hit?"
I almost laughed out loud. "You're asking me how to hit? You're the expert at this."
Mom's face actually flushed slightly at my words. She froze for a moment, then shifted forward, assumed a stance, and gently punched me in the face.
Because I was wearing a head covering, the punch barely even registered as a massage.
"You need to put some force into it."
"Force? How... do I use force?" Mom seemed a bit confused, at a loss.
"How do you usually hit me? Come on."
Mom thought for a moment, took a deep breath, and punched me hard on the head, but it still felt weak.
"Mom, you need to bring some emotion into it," I tried to guide her.
"What emotion?"
"Anger."
"Anger?"
"Yes, think about it carefully. Was it your fault when you and Dad divorced? You endured his affair; you endured him bringing home an illegitimate child; you even endured your son doing such terrible things to you."
"Stop talking."
"A perfectly good family fell apart, and the blame was still placed on you! You suffered so much injustice, and you couldn't explain it to anyone."
Mom's face darkened, her chest rising and falling with agitation.
I grew more impassioned as I spoke: "Your son is a bastard, a pervert! You could only hit him once, and there was nothing else you could do. You were pregnant and didn't tell anyone—whose child was it?"
"Stop talking!" Mom shouted, punching me hard in the face. I felt a sting in my nose before I could even process it, and then another punch followed.
Mom threw punch after punch at me, even using her feet in the end. I was knocked around, aching all over, but in my heart, I felt an incredible sense of peace.
After the storm of blows, Mom collapsed onto my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
My heart ached with pain. After hesitating for a long time, I reached out and wrapped my arms around her, gently patting her back.
Mom cried harder and harder, pounding her fists against my chest...
...
...
...
In the blink of an eye, the college entrance exams were over.
Lu Yiyi was admitted to the provincial normal college. Although my grades were decent, they fell far short of my ideal, so after discussing it with Mom, I decided to repeat my final year of high school.
Mom agreed.
With no recent worries, I poured all my energy into studying.
Since my room had poor lighting, Mom suggested we swap bedrooms. I thought it unnecessary, but under her insistence, I eventually moved into her room.
One early morning in August, after breakfast, Mom changed into her work attire: a white shirt with the collar turned out, a light-gray fitted blazer over it, a gray pencil skirt, sheer nude pantyhose hugging her long, shapely legs, and black stiletto peep-toe heels.
Before leaving, Mom reminded me that she had a social engagement that evening and would likely return late, so I should figure out dinner on my own.
I spent the entire day cooped up in my room studying. Lu Yiyi, now free, called to say she wanted to come see me, but I firmly refused.
I studied until midnight, and Mom still hadn't returned. I started feeling a bit under the weather—weak limbs, dizzy, and my head throbbing. Unable to hold out any longer, I sent her a message and went to bed.
In a daze, I seemed to have a dream. I dreamed that my mother, smelling of alcohol, walked into my room, casually kicked off her high heels, unbuttoned her shirt, and took off her uniform blouse. Then, standing by the bed with her back to me, she bent slightly, reached behind her back, and unhooked her bra. Next, she lifted her round, sexy buttocks and peeled off her flesh-colored pantyhose before collapsing weakly beside me.
The faint scent of perfume, the alcohol mixed with her rich natural fragrance, and her dreamlike murmurs made me feel lightheaded and intoxicated, unable to distinguish between dream and reality.
It wasn't until the next morning, when I woke from the dream, that I still felt dizzy and my nose was a bit stuffy. I sniffed a few times and suddenly heard a soft breathing sound.
I froze for a moment, then turned sharply to see my mother lying face down on the bed, her upper body bare. The skin on her back was snow-white, smooth, and lustrous. Her full, melon-like breasts were pressed beneath her, like flattened balloons, with large swathes of soft, creamy flesh spilling out from her sides. Her lower body was covered by a thin sheet, the outline of her round, perky buttocks clearly visible. Her long, slender legs were exposed, looking both elegant and sensual.
At the sight of this breathtaking scene, my mind went blank, but a restless heat surged within me. My morning erection throbbed rhythmically.
Why was my mother in my bed?
I took a few deep breaths to steady myself and carefully recalled the events of the previous night. Suddenly, it dawned on me—last night wasn't a dream. My mother had been drunk and forgotten that we had swapped bedrooms. In her confusion, she had stumbled into my room, undressed, and collapsed beside me.
This… this was a bit awkward…
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