Incest Not just a Mother Anymore - Tale

[nivithenaughty]

PART 8

The nap stretched long and deep, the kind that happens only on lazy Sundays when the heat outside is too heavy to fight. Leka woke first, around four-thirty, blinking at the golden light slanting through the curtains. Indhu stirred a minute later, hair tousled, skirt twisted slightly around her legs. Karthik slept on like a child, curled on his side, one arm flung across the empty space where she had been, face peaceful and unguarded.

Indhu sat up slowly, careful not to wake him. She looked at his sleeping face—long lashes, the faint shadow of stubble starting on his jaw, the mouth that had kissed her cheeks so boldly this morning—and felt a soft ache in her chest. Something tender and confusing and warm.

Leka yawned, stretching. “Let him sleep, Amma. He played cricket in this heat, poor thing.”

Indhu smiled, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with the lightest touch. “Come, help me make tea and snacks.”

They left him sleeping and padded to the kitchen. Indhu washed her face at the sink, tied her hair loosely, and started the coffee for herself and tea for Leka. The movements were familiar, comforting—boiling milk, crushing ginger, the soft clink of steel glasses. Leka sliced onions for bajji, chattering about college, about which kurti she would wear tomorrow, about how the boys would stare.

Indhu listened and laughed in all the right places, but her mind kept drifting to the boy still asleep in the bedroom. The way he had looked at her this morning. The way his hands had felt on her waist. The sudden, fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he chose clothes for her alone.

Karthik woke twenty minutes later to the smell of coffee and the sound of his mother and sister talking softly. For one peaceful second everything felt normal.

Then memory slammed into him.

The bathroom.  

The videos.  

India Summer on her knees, mouth open, eyes locked on the camera.  

His own mother's face superimposed—her lips, her hair, her body in black lace and stockings.  
The way he had come twice, harder than ever, picturing her moans, her taste, her pussy grinding on his tongue.

Guilt crashed over him like cold water. He sat up, heart racing, shame burning his throat.  
What kind of son am I?  
He couldn't face her. Couldn't look at her innocent, beautiful face knowing what he had just done.

But the kitchen called. He couldn't hide forever.

He walked out slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes, trying to look normal.

Indhu turned from the stove, smile soft. “Slept well, kanna? Coffee?”

Her voice was the same gentle one that had sung him lullabies. Her eyes were the same warm ones that had cried when he had fever at eight. Nothing in her face showed she knew the filth that had just played in his head.

He nodded, throat tight. “Yes, Amma.”

They sat in the hall—tea, bajji, murukku from the new batch. Leka dominated the conversation, planning outfits, asking Indhu which lipstick would match the wine kurti. Karthik spoke when spoken to, laughed when he was supposed to, but every time his eyes met his mother's he felt the guilt like a knife.

Evening movie time came—some old family comedy on TV. They pulled the sofa closer, Leka sprawled across one end with her legs over the armrest, Indhu in the middle, Karthik on the other side. The room grew dark outside, only the TV glow and the soft yellow bulb lighting their faces.

Halfway through the film Karthik couldn't bear the distance anymore. The guilt sat heavy on his chest, choking him.

He shifted closer, slowly, until his shoulder brushed hers. Indhu glanced at him, surprised, then smiled and let him settle against her side like he used to when he was small.

He slipped an arm around her waist—careful, apologetic—and rested his head against her upper arm. A silent sorry. A plea for forgiveness he couldn't voice.

Indhu's heart flipped. She felt the tremor in his touch, the way he held her like she was something precious and fragile. Without thinking she pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.

Leka was too absorbed in the movie to notice.

The film ended. Lights out. They migrated to the bedroom in the familiar order—Leka, Indhu, Karthik.

Karthik lay on his side facing his mother in the dark, arm dbangd carefully across her waist, holding her like he was afraid she would disappear.

Guilt still gnawed at him, sharp and poisonous.

But her breathing was steady, her body warm and real under his arm, and slowly, slowly, the storm inside him quieted.

He pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing in jasmine and clean skin and home.

I'm sorry, Amma.  
I'll be better.  
I love you.

She felt the silent words in the way he held her—tight, protective, a little desperate—and her own heart answered without words.

Sleep took them all, tangled together in the big bed, the secrets and the guilt and the love all breathing in the same quiet rhythm.

For tonight, at least, it was enough.

--------------------

Monday morning came too soon.

The alarm buzzed at six-thirty. Indhu woke first, slipped from the bed, and padded to the kitchen in her safe cotton nightie. Coffee, tea, idlies—the routine that had always felt like home.

But something was off.

Karthik woke later than usual, eyes shadowed, voice quiet. No sleepy grin when she handed him coffee. No teasing compliment about how she looked in the morning light. Just a soft “Thank you, Amma” and a quick look away.

She watched him over the rim of her glass, heart giving a small, worried tug.  
He's been like this since yesterday afternoon. Deep in thought, barely speaking. Did I say something wrong? Did the shopping overwhelm him?

Leka noticed nothing—she chattered about college, about which new kurti she would wear today. Karthik nodded at the right times, but his smiles didn't reach his eyes.

The week unfolded in the same careful rhythm.

college for Karthik, college for Leka, housework for Indhu. Rajan was away until Wednesday, so the house felt lighter, but the lightness didn't touch Karthik.

He came home dusty from cricket, but instead of flopping on the sofa beside her and stealing bites from her plate while telling her about his day, he went straight to the bathroom, showered, and disappeared into his books.

Evenings, when they watched TV together, he sat on the far end of the sofa, eyes fixed on the screen, body angled away.

Indhu felt the absence like a missing limb.

She missed his sudden compliments—the way he would look at her in a new kurti and say “Amma, you look like a heroine” with that shy, proud grin.  
She missed his head on her shoulder during movies, his arm dbangd casually across her waist when they slept.  
She missed the way his eyes followed her in the kitchen, warm and attentive, like she was the only person in the room.

Now there was only quiet.

She caught herself watching him when he thought she wasn't looking—his broad shoulders hunched over books, the way he rubbed his neck when he was thinking too hard, the faint crease between his brows that hadn't been there before.

What happened, kanna?  

Did I do something?  

Or is it… something else?

She never asked. Mothers don't pry when their sons go quiet; they wait. But the waiting ached.

Wednesday night Rajan returned—loud phone calls on the terrace, the familiar weight of his presence filling the house. Everything snapped back to “normal.” Leka wore her safe churidars again. Indhu cooked his favourite fish curry. The bed felt crowded once more.

Karthik became even quieter.

When Rajan raised his voice about Leka's college fees, Karthik didn't jump in to defend anyone. He just stared at his plate.

When Rajan complained about the price of groceries, Karthik didn't meet Indhu's eyes across the table like they used to—sharing a secret roll of eyes, a silent “we'll manage.”

He kept distance.

Inside him, the guilt was a living thing—sharp teeth, cold claws.

Every time he looked at his mother—beautiful, gentle, innocent—he saw the porn playing behind his eyes.  

India Summer on her knees.  

But with Amma's face.  

Amma's mouth.  

Amma's moans.

He had jerked off to his own mother. Twice. Imagined her riding his face, taking him inside her, swallowing him.

The shame was unbearable.

Distance was the only cure, he told himself.  
Stay away. Don't touch. Don't look too long.  
The feelings will fade.  
They have to.

So he built walls—small, careful ones.  

Sat on the edge of the bed at night, back turned.
  
Helped in the kitchen but never lingered.  

Smiled politely, spoke when spoken to, loved her from afar.

Indhu felt every brick.

She lay awake long after the lights were out, listening to his breathing on the far side of the bed, feeling the cold space where his arm used to rest across her waist.

She missed him.

And she didn't understand why he had gone away.

The week ended quietly, the house holding its breath, waiting for something neither of them dared to name.


-----------------------

The silence grew like a shadow.

At first it was small—Karthik's answers shorter, his smiles thinner. Then it became a habit. He woke, drank coffee with a quiet “thank you,” left for college without the usual hug or teasing remark. Evenings he came home, showered, ate, studied. When the family watched TV he sat on the far cushion, eyes on the screen, body angled away.

Leka noticed first.

One evening while helping Indhu fold laundry she asked, “Amma, what happened to Karthik? He's like a ghost these days. Doesn't talk, doesn't laugh, doesn't even fight with me anymore.”

Indhu forced a smile, heart twisting. “Studies pressure, maybe. Twelfth standard is hard.”

But she knew it wasn't studies.

She felt the distance like a physical ache.

Every morning she chose her clothes carefully now—the new kurtis, the soft tops, the ankle skirts, the luxury pyjama sets when Rajan was away. She wore them hoping, waiting for the old Karthik to return—the one who would look at her with shining eyes and say “Amma, you look brand new today” or “This colour is perfect on you.”

She wore the rose-pink sleeveless top with the knee-length skirt one day, hair loose, a touch of kajal.  
Nothing.

The charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket the next evening.  
He glanced once—quick, burning—then looked away.

The luxury modal pyjama set in smoky rose when Rajan was on a two-day trip—soft fabric sliding over her skin, camisole straps thin on her shoulders.  
He lay on the far edge of the bed, back turned, breathing careful.

But she caught him looking when he thought she wasn't watching.

In the kitchen while she cooked, his eyes tracing the curve of her waist in the fitted top.  
In the mirror when she brushed her hair, his reflection staring a second too long before he turned away, cheeks flushed.  
At the dining table, gaze dropping to her legs under the skirt, then snapping up guiltily when she moved.

He saw her.  
He just wouldn't speak.

The secret pieces—the jeans, the black thread-tie nightie, the off-shoulder top—remained buried in the old saree shelf. Those were his “only for you.” She couldn't wear them yet. Not without him.

One afternoon while Karthik was out playing cricket, Indhu sat with Varsha on a video call, the phone propped against a pillow.

Varsha's face filled the screen, eyes wide with mischief. “So, your young boyfriend took you shopping, ha? Secret nighties, shimmer leggings, luxury everything. Lucky woman!”

Indhu laughed at first, the sound light. “Dei, stop it. He's my son.”

But the laughter faded quickly.

Varsha's expression softened. “What happened, Indhu? You look… sad.”

Indhu's voice dropped. “He's changed, Varsha. Ever since the shopping. Quiet. Distant. Doesn't talk to me like before. Doesn't even look at me properly. I wear everything he chose—every single piece—waiting for him to say something, anything. But nothing.”

Varsha listened, serious now.

“I miss him,” Indhu whispered, eyes stinging suddenly. “I miss my boy who used to tell me I looked beautiful every day. Now he barely speaks. I feel… lost.”

Varsha was quiet for a moment. “Maybe he's going through something. Boys that age—hormones, confusion. Give him time. But talk to him, Indhu. Gently. He worships you. That doesn't vanish overnight.”

Indhu nodded, but the ache stayed.

Rajan came and went—work trips, late nights, the usual tension. The house adjusted around him like it always did.

But the real silence lived between mother and son.

Indhu wore the clothes he had chosen, hoping each new day would bring back his voice, his eyes, his warmth.

Karthik watched from the shadows, guilt choking him every time he looked too long, desire burning him every time he looked away.

The week ended with the distance still there—careful, painful, growing.

And neither of them knew how to cross it.


------------------------------


Indhu took Varsha's advice to heart.

Give him time.

So she waited.

The days settled into a new, careful rhythm. Rajan's trips came and went, Leka's college routine kept her busy, and Karthik… Karthik remained quiet. Polite. Distant. He spoke when spoken to, helped with chores, smiled when expected, but the light in his eyes had dimmed, and the easy closeness between them had turned into something fragile and careful.

Indhu felt it like a bruise she couldn't touch.

To fill the quiet, she leaned harder into Varsha.

Every afternoon, once the house was clean and lunch dishes done, she found her way to her friend—sometimes a video call while folding clothes, sometimes a walk to Varsha's little tailoring boutique on the main road, sometimes both of them escaping to the nearby parlour for threading or a quick facial.

Varsha's shop was a small, colourful haven—bolts of cloth stacked to the ceiling, sewing machines humming, the smell of new fabric and coffee always in the air. Indhu would sit on the high stool near the cutting table, watching Varsha pin patterns or stitch hems, and the words would spill out.

“He chose this top, Varsha. Look at the colour—he said it would make my skin glow.”  
Indhu would hold up the rose-pink sleeveless one, the fabric catching the light.

Varsha would pause her stitching, look up with a grin. “Ayyo, perfect choice. Your young boyfriend has good taste.”

Indhu would laugh, cheeks warming. “Dei, stop it. He's my son.”

But the next day it would be the midnight-navy pyjama set.  
“He picked this one and said ‘only when it's safe.' Like he was protecting me from your father's eyes.”

Varsha would whistle low. “Romantic da. Like a hero hiding gifts for his heroine.”

Or the peach-pink nightie with soft pleats.  
“I wore it once when Rajan was away. He said I looked… gorgeous.”

Varsha's eyes would sparkle. “And how did you feel?”

Indhu's voice would drop. “Like a woman again. Not just a mother. Not just a wife.”

Every compliment on her clothes—and there were many, from neighbours, from the parlour girls, even from Murugan uncle at the butcher—led back to him.

“He knew exactly what would suit me.”

Varsha listened, stitched, teased.

But slowly the teasing turned gentle.

One afternoon in the parlour, while warm wax was spread on Indhu's arms, Varsha leaned close.

“You know, Indhu… I've known you twenty years. I've seen you laugh with Rajan in the early days. I've seen you tired, angry, resigned. But I've never seen you like this—happy and sad at the same time, all because of one boy.”

Indhu's eyes stung. “He's not talking to me, Varsha. He looks at me when he thinks I don't see, but when I look back… he turns away. Like he's carrying something heavy.”

Varsha squeezed her hand. “It sounds like a young couple's fight, da. The longing in your voice… like a girlfriend missing her boyfriend after a silly argument.”

Indhu laughed, but it came out shaky. “Don't be ridiculous.”

But the words stayed.

Another day at the boutique, Indhu tried on a new kurti Varsha was stitching for her—soft teal, three-quarter sleeves, perfect neckline.

Varsha pinned the hem. “Look at you. Glowing. All because your ‘boyfriend' chose clothes that make you feel beautiful.”

Indhu met her eyes in the mirror. “I miss him, Varsha. I miss my son.”

Varsha's voice softened. “He'll come back. Boys that age… they carry storms inside. But he worships you. That doesn't vanish.”

Indhu nodded, but the ache stayed.

She wore the clothes he had chosen every day—rotating through the luxury pyjamas when Rajan was away, the bolder tops when it was safe, the flowing skirts and soft colours when it wasn't. She wore them like armour, like love letters, waiting for the day he would notice again and speak.

And every night, lying in the dark with his arm no longer across her waist, she whispered into the silence:

Come back to me, kanna.

I'm still here.

Waiting.


---------------------------


The exam season arrived like a storm cloud, dark and heavy.

Indhu saw it coming and stepped back.

She let Karthik study. No more late-night TV, no distractions. She cooked his favourite brain foods—fish curry rich with omega, almond milk at night, fruits cut into perfect pieces. She left his study table lamp on low, slipped in quietly to place water or coffee, then retreated without a word.

Inside, she waited.

Varsha's teasing words echoed sometimes when she was alone:  
“You're acting like his girlfriend, Indhu—waiting, longing, dressing up for his eyes only.”

The thought made her cheeks burn and her stomach flutter in a way that felt both special and wrong.  

He makes me feel seen. Wanted. Like I matter. 
 
But then motherhood crashed in: He's your son. He's hurting. Give him space.



Karthik buried himself in books, telling himself the same lie:  
After exams I'll be normal again. The thoughts will stop. The guilt will fade.

But every night, lying inches from her in the dark, he felt her warmth, smelled her jasmine hair, heard her soft breathing. The videos waited in his phone like poison. He didn't open them again, but he didn't delete the folder either.

The exams came and went—ten days of tension, early mornings, late nights, the house hushed except for the scratch of his pen.

When they ended he felt hollow, not relieved.

“How did you do?” Indhu asked every day, voice gentle, eyes hopeful.

“Well, Amma,” he lied each time, forcing a smile. “I think good.”

She believed him. She always did.

Results day came in early September.

Karthik sat alone in his room, staring at the screen.  
Failed in Physics and Maths.  
50-55% in the rest.  
Overall barely passing.

His stomach dropped. He had always been solid—85%+, sometimes 90. Never brilliant, but never this. The distraction, the nights lost to guilt and forbidden thoughts, had cost him everything.

He didn't cry. Just sat numb.

Rajan came home early that evening, still in his office shirt, laptop bag slung over shoulder. His friend's son was in the same class; the marks had already spread through the parents' WhatsApp group.

“Marks out?” Rajan asked casually, dropping his bag.

Karthik's throat closed. He handed over the printout without a word.

Rajan scanned it. His face darkened, then went red.

The first slap came fast—open palm across Karthik's cheek, sharp and loud.

“You useless boy!” Rajan roared. “Failed? FAILED? After all the money, all the coaching—what were you doing?”

Second slap. Harder.

Leka heard from the kitchen and ran in, eyes wide.

Indhu followed, spoon still in hand, face going pale.

“Rajan—” she started.

He turned on her, eyes blazing. “This is your fault too! Spoiling him, letting him waste time!”

Third slap. Karthik's head snapped sideways, cheek burning, tears stinging but not falling.

He stood silent, taking it.  
I deserve this.  
I failed.  
I'm worthless.

Leka started crying, hands over her mouth.

Indhu tried to step between them. “Rajan, stop! He's your son!”

Rajan's look pinned her in place—pure fury. “Stay out of it.”

She froze, tears spilling over.

Rajan stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. The car started, tires screeching as he drove off.

The house fell deathly quiet except for Leka's soft sobs.

Indhu ran to Karthik, hands trembling as she cupped his burning cheeks, tears streaming down her face.

“Kanna… my baby… I'm sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I'm so sorry he did this.”

She pulled him into her arms, rocking him like he was five again, fingers stroking his hair, lips pressing kisses to his forehead, his temple, the red marks on his cheek.

Karthik's walls cracked.

He buried his face in her shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist tight, and finally let the tears come—silent, shaking, years of guilt and pain pouring out against her neck.

Leka stood crying in the doorway, helpless.

Indhu held him closer, tears soaking his shirt.

“I've got you,” she whispered over and over. “I've got you. You're enough. You're always enough for me.”

In that moment, something shifted forever.

The distance he had built to protect her shattered against her embrace.

And the love—confusing, overwhelming, undeniable—flooded back in, stronger than before.