It was the day after my eighteenth birthday. I woke up with a pounding headache. Zack, Nedry, and I had gone out last night for an evening of partying and drinking. It didn’t matter that I was only 18 – if you say it’s your birthday, most bartenders will give you a free shot anyways. And if they didn’t, there was always someone else around willing to party.
Ma was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee when I walked in. As usual, she looked good. At age 41, she kept herself fit and well made up. I know half my buddies would bed her in a minute. She found their attentions amusing, and often flirted with them: chucking one under the chin, shushing another by placing a long sculpted fingernail against his lips, or even leaning over the counter so they would be sure to get a good view of her ample cleavage. But she was sexy is a good way, not a trampy over-done cliché. She was vice president of some bank downtown and always looked business-like. Today she had her hair up in a severe bun on the back of her head and was wearing a wrap dress with a skirt just long enough to be seen as work-casual.
I sniffed the air. “Something smells good,” I said. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down catercorner from her at the table.
She reached across thee table and scooted a basket of muffins to me. “Fresh blueberry,” she told me. “I thought you might need something after your night out.”
I took a muffin and nibbled it. “I didn’t wake you up when I came in, did I?’
She flipped a hand at me. “No worries,” she said.
That was another thing I liked about my mom. Nothing ever seemed to phase her. I had seen her at work, with chaos drifting around her, remain serene and calm. She had actually been humming a tune to herself one time I visited on what others would have deemed a bad day. It amazed me how she could function when so many others melted down.
She laid a hand on my wrist. “We need to talk,” she said, looking me straight in the eye.
“Uh oh,” I groaned. I set the muffin aside. “That doesn’t sound good.”
She let go of my wrist. “It’s nothing bad,” she said. “It’s just that, well, now you’re 18 and that means more responsibilities…”
I groaned again. “Please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ve had ‘the talk’ already. I know about sex, Ma.”
Her face flushed and she held up both hands, palms facing me. “I know that,” she said. “It’s just that, well, since your Dad isn’t around, you’re the man of the house.”
I groaned yet again, inwardly this time. My Dad had gone out for beer and cigarettes one night when I was 13 and never came home. Two days later a process server had knocked on our door and presented my Ma with divorce papers. With no outward emotion, she signed them right then and there and pushed them back at the man. Since that moment I knew I was the man of the house.
“And as man of the house, that means,” she continued. “You have rights to me.”
I stopped chewing. My mouth hung open, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders, and looked away, slightly embarrassed. “It means, you can have sex with me.”
I gaped at her.
“Only if you want to, of course…
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