Mother of Me

Chapter 23: The Weight of Twenty Days

Twenty days had passed since Selvam’s unexpected return, twenty long, exhausting, and emotionally draining days that felt like an eternity to the new Sangeetha.

Each morning began the same way. She would wake up with a heavy heart, feeling the familiar weight of her 36C breasts pressing down on her chest, the mangalsutra lying warm between them. She would bathe slowly, her hands trembling as she soaped her soft curves, feeling every sensitive inch of her mother’s body, the way her nipples tightened under warm water, the slickness between her thighs, the gentle swell of her belly, and the constant awareness of her vagina. After drying herself, she would dress in a fresh saree or salwar, carefully draping the pallu to hide her cleavage, tying the petticoat low on her wide hips, and completing the look with bangles, anklets, toe rings, and the ever-present sindoor.

The days had fallen into a painful rhythm.

Selvam continued his “slow and respectful” approach. He would flirt occasionally, brushing his hand against her waist while she cooked, complimenting how beautiful she looked in sarees, or pulling her close for a lingering hug from behind, inhaling the scent of her hair and jasmine flowers. He still slept on the sofa, but his eyes grew hungrier with each passing day. The new Sangeetha lived in constant fear of the night he would finally demand his marital rights.

To escape being alone with him, she started going to Lace & Grace almost every day. The shop had become her only sanctuary, even though working there came with its own deep humiliations.

At the shop, she spent hours folding bras and panties, helping women choose lingerie, measuring bust sizes, and listening to customers talk about their bodies. Every time she held up a bra or explained cup sizes, she felt a burning shame, she was a boy trapped in a woman’s body, touching and selling intimate garments while her own heavy breasts strained against her blouse.

Yet, Ramya, Priya, and especially Ratish gave her unexpected comfort.

Ramya would pull her into warm conversations about serials and recipes. Priya teased her playfully. Ratish remained the gentlest of all, always noticing when she looked tired or anxious. He would quietly take over heavy tasks, bring her tender coconut water when she looked pale, and speak to her in soft, respectful tones. His kindness made the new Sangeetha feel strangely safe, even though she knew it was dangerous.

To avoid Selvam even more, she began socializing heavily with the neighbours. She visited Lalitha’s house often, helped Meenakshi with small chores, and even attended Divya’s evening tea sessions. Every visit was humiliating ,sitting with legs closed, adjusting her pallu constantly, listening to women talk about periods, husbands, and motherhood while she smiled and nodded. But it was better than being at home.

Meanwhile, the new Prakash (real Sangeetha) had thrown himself completely into NEET preparation. He went to the lab every day for special coaching under Meera. He was focused, determined, and surprisingly comfortable in his male body. He had also grown close to Ramya’s daughter Priya — they would talk for hours about studies, movies, and life whenever he visited the shop. Their friendship was easy and natural.

But for the new Sangeetha, comfort remained elusive.

Then came the real test.

It was a warm Thursday evening when Selvam returned home with a broad smile.

“Big news!” he announced. “My mother is coming to stay with us from today. She has been living with my brother all these years, but now she wants to stay with us. She’ll stay in the hall for now.”

The new Sangeetha’s blood ran cold.

Selvam’s mother Pattamma was a strict, traditional, and notoriously wicked woman. Even the real Sangeetha had feared her during the early years of marriage. She was sharp-tongued, controlling, and deeply conservative.

That evening, Pattamma arrived with two large suitcases and a commanding presence. She was in her late sixties, dressed in a stark white saree, with sharp eyes and a thin, disapproving mouth.

After a brief, cold greeting, she looked around the house and declared, “This house needs a proper woman’s touch again. I will stay here in the hall. Selvam, you should move into the bedroom with your wife from tonight. It’s not right for a husband to sleep separately.”

The new Sangeetha felt the ground disappear beneath her feet.

That night, after dinner, the tension in the house was unbearable.

Pattamma had already started giving instructions, how to cook, how to keep the house, how a “good wife” should behave. The new Sangeetha endured it all with lowered eyes.

At 10:30 PM, Selvam entered the bedroom carrying his pillow and a small bag. He closed the door softly behind him.

The new Sangeetha had already changed into a simple cream-coloured nighty. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt dizzy. She sat on the edge of the bed, legs tightly closed, arms wrapped around herself.

Selvam changed into a vest and lungi and lay down on the bed. For a few minutes, there was silence.

Then he turned towards her.

“Come closer, Sangeetha,” he whispered.

She hesitated, but slowly moved nearer. Selvam pulled her into his arms, turning her so they were face to face. His strong body pressed against her soft, curvy one. He could feel the fullness of her breasts against his chest.

He leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. The new Sangeetha’s body stiffened. His lips were rough, demanding. His hand slowly moved down her back, over the curve of her waist, and rested on her plump buttocks. He squeezed gently, pulling her even closer.

His hand then slid lower, between her thighs, cupping her most intimate area through the thin nighty. The new Sangeetha trembled violently. Tears filled her eyes. She felt his fingers pressing against her vagina, the warmth of his palm making her clit throb unwillingly.

For a long moment, he held her like that, kissing her neck, breathing heavily, his hand exploring her body.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

He pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes with restrained hunger.

“Not yet,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. “I want you to be comfortable first. I’ve waited eight years. I can wait a few more days.”

He kissed her forehead tenderly and turned to his side, but kept one arm possessively around her waist.

The new Sangeetha lay there, frozen, staring at the ceiling with tears silently rolling down her cheeks. Her body was on fire with fear and unwanted sensations. The weight of her breasts, the warmth between her legs, the heavy arm around her, everything felt like a cage.

Outside, in the hall, Pattamma’s presence loomed like a dark shadow.

Inside the bedroom, the real storm was only beginning.