Adultery Dad's Enemy Made My Mom Heartless (COMPLETED!!)

[thoristhanos]

UPDATE - 7

SON'S POV

One month bled into the next after I had watched the videos. Nothing monumental seemed to happen, just a subtle shift in the rhythm of our home. On a few scattered evenings, my mother would return maybe an hour later than her usual time, her steps heavy with the kind of fatigue that comes from a draining day at the office. There was no telltale dishevelment, no missing lipstick. In fact, her lipstick remained perfectly intact, the coral line of it crisp against her lips, which made me suspect she had carefully reapplied it before stepping through our door—perhaps in the dim light of a car’s vanity mirror, or in the silent, fluorescent glow of an office bathroom, erasing any evidence of what might have happened in the hours between. The scent of another man’s cologne, which had once clung to her like a ghost, was now absent. She spoke of work stresses, of tedious meetings and pending reports, with a weary authenticity that slowly chipped away at my certainty.


I began to construct a narrative that soothed my own turmoil: perhaps it hadn’t been an affair at all. Perhaps it was just a single, catastrophic lapse—a one-night stand born from loneliness, too much wine, and the aching void my father’s absence had carved in her life. They had worked closely, the tension had boiled over, and then, sobered by guilt, she had ended it. The thought brought a twisted sense of relief. If it was over, then our family, however fractured, could remain intact. The future wouldn’t be entirely poisoned. Yet, alongside that relief festered a darker, more shameful frustration. I would never see them again. The electric, horrifying spectacle of her surrender was locked in those digital files, a closed loop with no sequel. The secret surveillance, which had made me feel powerful in my knowledge, now felt pointless.

My days took on a hollow monotony. I revisited the videos compulsively, the initial shock worn smooth into a numb, ritualistic voyeurism. I jerked off to the images until my own release felt meaningless, a mechanical response to a scene that had lost its ability to truly wound me. I knew every gasp, every sigh, every desperate roll of her hips by heart. It was all past tense. A sealed chapter.

Then, on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday evening, as we sat eating dal and rice under the kitchen’s yellow light, she dropped the bomb, the sentence that shattered my fragile peace.

“I’ll be going to Delhi for a training session,” she said, her voice casual, as if announcing a grocery run. “Three weeks.”

My spoon clattered against my plate. Three weeks? Delhi? Training? In all my sixteen years, my mother had never been sent for out-of-town training. Her job was local, her routine as fixed as the tides. A cold clarity washed over me. This wasn't about training. This was a pretense, a beautifully constructed cover. Aakash hadn’t touched her in over a month because they were planning this. A three-week vacation, a prolonged escape far from prying eyes and familiar streets, dressed up in the respectable language of corporate professional development.

“Training?” I asked, my voice tighter than I intended. “What training? Since when does your company do that?”

She didn’t look up from her plate. “The new director has made it mandatory. Periodic skill upgrades for all senior staff. It’s a good opportunity.” Her tone was smooth, rehearsed.

“Who else is going from your office?” I pressed, the questions tumbling out. “Which part of Delhi? Where will you stay?”

Her fork stilled. When she finally looked at me, her eyes were no longer weary but sharp, glinting with a warning I hadn’t seen before. “Who are you to ask me all these things?, i have already talked to your father! ” she said, her voice low. “Your focus should be on your board exams, not on my travel itineraries.” I opened my mouth to speak again, but she cut me off, her voice rising just enough to slice through the room’s silence. “Enough. Keep your mind on your studies. This does not concern you.”



The rebuke was swift and final. The visible irritation on her face—the tightened jaw, the flash of anger in her eyes—was more telling than any answer she could have given. I had struck a nerve.  I had ventured too close to the truth, and she had slammed the door shut. I looked down at my plate, the food now tasteless, and didn’t dare utter another word.

The matter was settled with an unsettling efficiency. It was decided that my four-year-old brother, Rohan, and I would stay with our nana and nani in their village for the duration of her trip. The arrangements were made in quick, practical phone calls. Our childhood home would be empty, and we would be shipped off to the quiet, slow-moving world of our grandparents, far removed from the city and its secrets. As the reality of her impending absence settled, so did a chilling certainty. She wasn’t going to any training. And for the next three weeks, I would be in the dark, powerless, left to imagine what was happening in some hotel room far away, with only the memory of those old videos to fuel a resentment that was curdling into something hard and cold.

There were still two days until Saturday, the day of her departure. The hours seemed to stretch and contract with a strange tension. I watched her move through the apartment with a new, secretive energy—a suppressed excitement that hummed just beneath the surface of her usual routine.

The next day, when she returned from the office, I saw her struggling slightly under the weight of a large, glossy shopping bag from an upscale boutique in South Bombay. Her eyes flickered toward my room as she passed the living room, and she quickly diverted her path straight into her bedroom. I heard the soft click of her closet door opening and closing, followed by the distinct rustle of plastic and tissue paper being hastily stuffed inside. She was hiding it from me.

I pretended to be engrossed in a textbook, my heart hammering against my ribs. As soon as she announced she was going to the neighborhood temple for evening prayers—a sudden, uncharacteristic devotion—I waited for the front door to shut before slipping into her room.

The closet door creaked softly. There, shoved behind a row of her everyday sarees, was the bag. My hands trembled as I pulled it out onto the bed. Inside, wrapped in crisp boutique tissue, were several new purchases, all still sealed in their branded packaging.

First, there were five new saree sets. The outer plastic covers displayed glossy photographs of the models wearing them. Each saree was a vibrant, bold color—deep emerald, midnight blue, a shocking fuchsia—nothing like the subdued, practical cottons she usually wore. But it was the blouses that made my breath catch. Every single one was sleeveless, with backs that plunged nearly to the waist, and the fabrics were sheer: delicate lace, semi-transparent net, shimmering georgette that would reveal more than it concealed.

Beneath the sarees were smaller, sleeker boxes. Lingerie. I opened one carefully; inside was a two-piece set of a black lace bra and matching thong, the material so fine it felt like a spider’s web against my fingers. Another box contained a "teddy"—a one-piece slip of crimson satin with strategic cut-outs. Yet another held a sheer, sleeveless negligee that resembled a cape, barely long enough to cover the thighs, accompanied by a silken tie-belt. These were not garments for a woman attending professional development seminars.

Scattered at the bottom of the bag were other items: several new boxes of high-end makeup, the shades darker and more dramatic than her usual palette; stacks of thin, metallic bangles that would jangle with every movement; and, tucked discreetly into an inner pocket, two small packets of emergency contraceptive pills.

My throat tightened. Aakash had bought this for her. This entire “training” trip was a meticulously planned escape, and this bag was its wardrobe.

Suddenly, her mobile phone, left charging on her nightstand, began to vibrate with an incoming call. The screen lit up. The caller ID made my blood run cold.

‘Aakash Janu.’

Janu. A term of sickening endearment. I stared at the screen, paralyzed, until it stopped ringing. A moment later, a text notification chimed. My hand, moving almost of its own volition, swiped the screen open. The message was from Aakash.

How are the clothes, jaan-e-man? All set for our honeymoon in Goa now!

The words burned into my vision. Jaan-e-man. My life, my soul. Honeymoon in Goa. Not Delhi. Goa. A beach destination. A place for lovers. Not a single detail of her story was true.

A hot, confusing rush flooded me—revulsion twisted together with a sharp, undeniable thrill. My mother wasn’t just having an affair; she was planning a full-blown, romantic holiday, a second honeymoon, with her husband’s greatest enemy. The deception was breathtaking in its audacity.

I quickly shoved everything back into the bag, returned it to the closet, and wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans just as I heard her key turn in the front door.

The following Friday, my little brother Rohan and I were packed onto a train to our grandparents' village. The next three weeks were an agony of forced rural quiet and stifling imagination. While I helped nana in his garden or played with Rohan by the well, my mind was a thousand kilometers away, trapped in a lavish hotel room in Goa I had never seen. I pictured her wearing the sheer blouses, the lace thong, her skin against white sheets, her mouth forming those same moans I had memorized from the videos, but now for days on end. I craved to see it, even as I hated myself for the craving. I cursed Aakash’s name silently, a bitter mantra with every passing day.

In those three weeks, she never called nana's home landline to ask how her both son are doing ? , have they eaten properly ? not even about her 4 year old son, It was me who asked nana ji to call her and let me talk to her about how she was and update about how we are living in village heat without ac and facilities while she was enjoying in a goa lavish hotel with her lover. Whenever i called her in these three weeks, she never talked to me more than 2-3 minutes, she never even bothered asking how are we living in village even in those calls, i was again fell into anxiety and depression because it was too much, i got the worst of the situation as she was having the steamy sessions (meaning continuing the affair) and i couldn't do anything not even see her and jerk off (i couldn't even get satisfaction enjoy watching them). It was only pain and suffering back there.

When we finally returned home on a Monday afternoon, she was already there, unpacking. The first thing I noticed was her skin. It was several shades darker, glowing with a deep, golden tan that spoke of long hours spent not in conference halls, but in the sun.



“You got so dark,” I said, my voice flat.

She didn’t look up from her suitcase, folding a brightly colored sundress I had never seen before. “The training sessions were held outdoors,” she said smoothly. “Team-building exercises. The Delhi sun is quite harsh.”

I looked at the sundress, at her tan, at the relaxed, contented slope of her shoulders, and said nothing. The lie was perfect, and it hung in the air between us, thicker and more opaque than any of the sheer fabrics hidden in her closet.