The Summer of My Submission

I never planned to spend the summer between my junior and senior year of college fucking my mother. In fact, if someone had told me three months ago that I'd be balls-deep in the woman who gave birth to me, her legs wrapped around my waist while she screamed for her baby boy to cum inside her, I would have laughed in their face. But life has a way of taking the most unexpected turns, especially when you're twenty-one years old, hormonally charged, and suddenly living under the same roof as a newly divorced MILF who happens to be your own mother.

My name is Ethan, and this is the story of how I went from being a typical college student to becoming my mother's secret lover, her personal sex toy, and eventually, the man of the house in every sense of the word.

The drive from Michigan State back to my childhood home in suburban Chicago should have taken about three and a half hours. Instead, it took nearly five because I couldn't stop thinking about the phone call I'd received three days earlier. Mom had sounded different—breathier, more vulnerable, and when she'd told me she needed me to come home for the summer, there was an urgency in her voice that went beyond the usual maternal longing.

"Your father finally moved out for good, Ethan," she'd said, her voice trembling slightly. "I can't handle this big house alone. I need my son here with me."

My father, Richard, had been threatening to leave for years. A successful corporate attorney, he'd always treated Mom more like a trophy than a partner. At forty-two, my mother Samantha—or Sam, as I called her when I wasn't being formal—was still stunning. Standing five-foot-seven with the kind of curves that made men twice her age stop and stare, she'd maintained her figure through daily yoga and the kind of genetic lottery that most women would kill for. Long chestnut hair that fell in waves past her shoulders, hazel eyes that changed color with her mood, and a smile that could light up a room. She'd been a beauty queen in her youth, Miss Illinois runner-up, and age had only refined her features rather than diminished them.

I'd always known my mother was attractive. My friends had made that abundantly clear throughout high school, with their not-so-subtle comments and the way they'd suddenly develop an interest in coming over to study whenever Mom was home. But I'd never thought of her sexually. She was Mom—the woman who packed my lunches, who kissed my scrapes, who nagged me about homework and curfews. The idea of viewing her as a sexual being would have seemed absurd, even perverse.

That is, until I pulled into the driveway that sweltering June afternoon and saw her waiting for me on the front porch.

She was wearing a white sundress that clung to her body in ways that seemed almost criminal. The fabric was thin, practically see-through in the bright sunlight, and I could make out the outline of her bikini underneath. The dress was short, ending mid-thigh, and as she walked down the steps to greet me, I found my eyes drawn to her legs in a way that made my stomach tighten with unfamiliar tension.

"Ethan!" she cried out, rushing toward my car with her arms open.

I stepped out, and she threw herself against me, her body pressing into mine with an intimacy that felt different from our usual hugs. She smelled incredible—vanilla and jasmine, mixed with something uniquely her. Her breasts, fuller than I remembered, crushed against my chest, and I felt an unwelcome stirring in my shorts as her hips pressed into mine.

"I've missed you so much, baby," she whispered against my neck, her breath hot against my skin.

"I missed you too, Mom," I managed, trying to step back before she could feel the semi-erection that was rapidly forming.

But she held on, her hands sliding down my back to rest just above my waist. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were bright with tears, but there was something else there too—something I couldn't quite identify. Hunger? Loneliness? Whatever it was, it made my pulse quicken.

"Let me look at you," she said, stepping back but keeping her hands on my arms. "My God, Ethan. You've filled out even more. College is treating you well."

I had put on muscle since starting college. Years of swimming and weight training had given me broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and the kind of lean, athletic build that turned heads. At six-foot-two, I towered over my mother, and as she looked up at me with those hazel eyes, I felt a surge of protectiveness mixed with something far more dangerous.

"Come inside," she said, taking my hand and leading me toward the house. "I've made your favorite—lemonade and those sandwiches you like. Then we can talk about everything."

Everything, as it turned out, included the sordid details of my father's departure. He'd left her for a twenty-six-year-old associate at his firm, a cliché so pathetic it would have been funny if it hadn't devastated my mother. After twenty-three years of marriage, he'd simply packed a bag one night and walked out, leaving her with the house, a generous alimony settlement, and a broken heart.

"I don't know why I'm surprised," she said that first evening, as we sat on the back patio watching the sunset. She'd changed into denim shorts and a tank top, and I was doing my best not to stare at the way the fabric stretched across her chest. "He hasn't touched me in two years, Ethan. Two years. I should have known he was getting it somewhere else."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, not wanting to think about my father's sex life, or worse, my mother's lack of one. "I'm sorry, Mom. You deserve better."

"Do I?" She laughed bitterly, taking a long sip of her wine. "Sometimes I wonder. Maybe I stopped being desirable. Maybe I let myself go."

"Mom, that's ridiculous," I said, perhaps too quickly. "You're... you're beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have you."

She turned to look at me, her eyes searching my face. "You really think so?"

"I know so," I said, and I meant it. The words came out with a conviction that surprised us both.

Something shifted in the air between us then—a current of electricity that hadn't existed before. Mom held my gaze for a long moment, then smiled softly and reached out to touch my cheek.

"You're such a good son, Ethan. I'm so glad you're here."

That night, I lay in my childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the confusing cocktail of emotions swirling through me. I was angry at my father, protective of my mother, and disturbingly, undeniably aroused by the way she'd looked at me, touched me, pressed herself against me. When I finally drifted off to sleep, it was to the image of her in that white sundress, and I woke up with my hand wrapped around my cock, pumping furiously until I came with a stifled groan, her name on my lips.

The first week passed in a blur of domestic activity. We painted the kitchen, rearranged furniture, and purged the house of my father's belongings. Mom seemed to brighten with each passing day, her laughter becoming more genuine, her smiles more frequent. But there was also a new boldness to her—a willingness to be seen that hadn't existed before.

She started wearing less around the house. Not overtly sexual clothing, but things that left little to the imagination. Tiny cutoff shorts that rode up her ass when she bent over. Tank tops without bras that showed the outline of her nipples when she was cold. She took to swimming in the pool every afternoon, wearing a black bikini that I was fairly certain she'd purchased recently, because I'd never seen it before, and it covered significantly less than any of her old suits.

I tried to avoid watching her. I really did. But the house wasn't that large, and with just the two of us, we were constantly in each other's space. I'd be making coffee in the morning, and she'd come up behind me, reaching around me for a mug, her breasts pressing into my back. I'd be reading in the living room, and she'd stretch out on the couch opposite me, her legs propped up on the armrest, giving me an unobstructed view of her toned thighs. It was torture of the sweetest kind, and I found myself retreating to my room more and more often to relieve the tension that seemed to build with every passing hour.

The dreams started on my fifth night home. Vivid, erotic dreams that felt more real than waking life. In them, Mom wasn't my mother at all—she was a seductress, a goddess, a hungry woman who wanted nothing more than to feel me inside her. I'd wake up sweating, my cock hard and aching, and I'd have to jerk off twice before I could think straight.

I told myself it was just the situation. I was twenty-one, perpetually horny, and living with an attractive woman who was suddenly available and seemingly aware of her own sexuality in a way she hadn't been before. It was natural to have these thoughts, these urges. It didn't mean anything.

I was lying to myself, of course. But it would take another week for me to admit it.

The turning point came on a Saturday night, two weeks into my stay. Mom's best friend, Jennifer, had convinced her to go out for drinks, to "get back on the horse" as she'd put it. Mom had been reluctant, but I'd encouraged her, thinking that maybe if she met someone, started dating, these inappropriate thoughts of mine would fade away.

She'd spent an hour getting ready, emerging from her bedroom in a dress that made my mouth go dry. It was red, strapless, and hugged her body like a second skin. The hem ended just below her ass, and she was wearing heels that made her legs look endless. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, and she'd done her makeup in a way that emphasized her full lips and high cheekbones.

"How do I look?" she asked, doing a slow spin in the living room.

"Incredible," I managed, my voice rougher than intended. "You look... wow, Mom. He's going to be a lucky guy."

She smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes. "I don't want a lucky guy, Ethan. I just want to feel wanted. Is that too much to ask?"

"Never," I said, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.

She left, and I tried to occupy myself with video games and Netflix, but my mind kept wandering to where she was, what she was doing, who might be hitting on her. The thought of another man's hands on her made me see red, and I recognized the emotion for what it was—jealousy, pure and primitive.

She came home just after midnight, slightly tipsy and in a mood I couldn't quite read. I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water when she walked in, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief.

"Ethan, baby, you're still up," she said, her voice soft and warm.

"Couldn't sleep," I admitted, turning to face her.

She leaned against the counter, and in the dim light of the kitchen, she looked ethereal, otherworldly. The strapless dress had slipped slightly, revealing the tops of her breasts, and her hair was mussed in a way that suggested she'd been dancing, or perhaps someone had been running their hands through it.

"Did you have fun?" I asked, trying to keep my eyes on her face.

She shrugged. "It was okay. Lots of men buying me drinks, telling me how beautiful I am." She paused, her eyes meeting mine. "But you know what I realized? I don't want some stranger telling me I'm pretty. I want someone who means it. Someone who knows me."

"I mean it," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Mom."

The air went still. She stared at me, her hazel eyes wide, and I waited for her to laugh, to deflect, to tell me I was sweet but that I was her son and shouldn't say such things.

Instead, she pushed off the counter and walked toward me, her hips swaying with each step. She stopped when she was inches away, close enough that I could smell the wine on her breath, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her body.

"Say it again," she whispered.

"You're beautiful," I breathed. "So fucking beautiful."

Her hand came up, resting on my chest, right over my thundering heart. "Ethan, do you know what I thought about tonight, when those men were hitting on me? I thought about you. About how you look at me when you think I'm not watching. About how your voice gets rough when you tell me I look nice." She leaned closer, her lips almost brushing my ear. "I thought about what it would be like to kiss you. To feel your hands on me. To have you inside me."

"Mom," I choked out, my hands shaking at my sides. "We can't... this is..."

"Wrong?" she finished, and there was a note of challenge in her voice. "Who says? Your father? Society? Some arbitrary rule about who we should and shouldn't love?" She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine. "I'm lonely, Ethan. I've been lonely for years. And you're the only person who's ever made me feel truly seen. Truly wanted. Don't you want me too?"

I couldn't speak. The truth was lodged in my throat, undeniable and overwhelming. Of course I wanted her. I'd wanted her since the moment I'd seen her in that white sundress, maybe even longer, if I was honest with myself. The dreams, the fantasies, the constant arousal—it all led to this moment.

"Tell me," she insisted, her hand sliding down my chest to rest on my stomach. "Tell me you want me, Ethan. Tell me you think about me when you're alone in your room at night. Tell me you touch yourself thinking about your mother's body."

"Yes," I groaned, the admission tearing from me like a confession. "Yes, Mom, I want you. I dream about you. I jerk off thinking about you every fucking night. Is that what you want to hear?"

Her breath hitched, and her eyes darkened with desire. "Show me," she whispered. "Show me what you do when you think about me."

It was a command, not a request, and I found myself obeying without conscious thought. My hand moved to my shorts, unbuttoning them, and I pulled out my cock, already hard and throbbing. Mom's eyes dropped to it, and she licked her lips, a low moan escaping her.

"God, Ethan," she breathed. "You're so big. So hard for me?"

"Only for you," I grunted, beginning to stroke myself. "Only ever for you, Mom."

She watched for a moment, her chest heaving with each breath, then reached out and wrapped her hand around mine, guiding my movements. Her touch was electric, sending sparks shooting through my nervous system, and I groaned loudly, unable to contain myself.

"That's it, baby," she cooed. "Stroke that big cock for Mommy. Show me how much you want her."

The word "Mommy" sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt my balls tighten with impending release. But before I could cum, she removed her hand and stepped back, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Not yet," she said, her voice thick with desire. "I want to taste you first. I want to feel you cum in my mouth."

She sank to her knees right there in the kitchen, her expensive dress pooling around her on the tile floor, and took my cock into her hands. Looking up at me with those hazel eyes, she slowly, reverently, wrapped her lips around the head.

"Oh fuck," I groaned, my head falling back against the cabinet. "Oh fuck, Mom, yes."

She began to suck, her tongue swirling around the sensitive underside, her hands working the shaft in tandem with her mouth. She was skilled, practiced, and the thought of how she'd learned these techniques—how many men had felt this mouth on them before—should have bothered me. Instead, it only made me harder, knowing that I was the one she wanted now, that I was the one making her moan around my cock as she took me deeper.

"Look at me, Ethan," she commanded, pulling back just enough to speak. "Watch your mother suck your cock. Watch me take you deep."

I forced my eyes open, looking down at the sight of my mother on her knees, her lips stretched around my shaft, her eyes glazed with lust. It was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen, and I knew I'd never forget it as long as I lived.

She took me deeper, her nose brushing against my stomach, and I felt the head of my cock slide into her throat. She swallowed around me, the muscles contracting in a way that made my vision blur, and I had to grip the counter to keep from falling over.

"Mom, I'm gonna... I'm close..." I warned, my hips bucking involuntarily.

She didn't pull back. Instead, she doubled her efforts, her hand pumping my shaft while her mouth worked the head, her tongue flicking against the sensitive spot just beneath. I felt the orgasm building like a tidal wave, unstoppable and overwhelming, and then I was cumming, my cock pulsing as I shot rope after rope of hot cum down my mother's throat.

She swallowed eagerly, her eyes locked on mine, her throat working to take every drop. When I finally finished, she pulled back slowly, licking her lips with a satisfied smile.

"Mmm," she purred, rising to her feet. "You taste even better than I imagined, baby."

I was still catching my breath, my cock twitching with aftershocks, when she pressed herself against me and kissed me. I could taste myself on her lips, salty and intimate, and rather than being repulsed, I found myself deepening the kiss, my tongue seeking hers, my hands finally—finally—coming up to grip her waist.

"Bedroom," she gasped against my lips. "Now. I need you inside me, Ethan. I need you to fuck me. To claim me. To make me yours."

I didn't hesitate. I swept her up into my arms, her surprised laugh turning into a moan as I claimed her mouth again, and carried her toward the master bedroom. The room still smelled of her perfume, of the vanilla candles she loved, and as I laid her down on the bed, I felt a moment of surreal clarity—this was happening. I was about to fuck my mother, and nothing would ever be the same.

She sat up and reached behind her, unzipping her dress and letting it fall away. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her breasts—full, heavy, with rose-colored nipples that were already hard—spilled free. I stared, mesmerized, as she lay back and hooked her thumbs into her panties, sliding them down her legs and tossing them aside.

"Look at me, Ethan," she said, her voice soft but commanding. "Look at what you do to me."

I looked. God, I looked. She was shaved smooth, her pussy glistening with arousal, the lips swollen and pink. I could see her clit peeking out from between them, begging for attention, and I felt my cock—which had never fully softened—spring back to full hardness.

"Come here," she beckoned, spreading her legs in invitation. "Come taste your mother, baby. Make me cum on your tongue before you fuck me."

I crawled onto the bed, positioning myself between her thighs, and lowered my head to her waiting pussy. The scent of her—musky, sweet, unmistakably aroused—filled my senses, and I extended my tongue, dragging it slowly through her folds.

"Oh yes," she cried out, her hands coming up to grip my hair. "Yes, Ethan, just like that. Lick Mommy's pussy. Make me feel good."

I lost myself in the task, licking and sucking and probing with my tongue, finding her clit and circling it, then sucking it into my mouth. She writhed beneath me, her hips bucking against my face, her moans growing louder and more desperate with each passing second.

"Fingers," she gasped. "Put your fingers in me, baby. Stretch me out for your cock."

I obeyed, sliding two fingers into her tight heat, feeling her walls clamp down around them. She was so wet, so ready, and I curled my fingers upward, finding the rough patch of her G-spot and rubbing it in firm circles while I continued to assault her clit with my tongue.

"Oh fuck, Ethan! Oh fuck, right there, baby, right there!" she screamed, her thighs trembling on either side of my head.

I felt her orgasm building, her muscles tightening, her breath coming in ragged gasps. And then she was cumming, her back arching off the bed, her hands pulling my hair hard enough to hurt as she ground her pussy against my face. I kept licking, kept fingering, riding out her climax until she collapsed back onto the mattress, panting and sweating and utterly beautiful.

"Now," she whispered, her eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. "Now you fuck me, Ethan. Fuck me like you own me. Because you do, baby. I've been yours since the day you were born, and now I'm yours in every way."

I rose up over her, positioning my cock at her entrance, and paused. "Mom, are you sure? We can still stop..."

She reached up and grabbed my face, her expression fierce. "Don't you dare stop, Ethan. Don't you dare pull away from me now. I need this. I need you. Fuck me, son. Fuck your mother like she's the only woman in the world."

I thrust forward, burying myself to the hilt in one smooth motion, and we both cried out in unison. She was tight, impossibly tight, her pussy gripping my cock like a velvet vise. I held still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting myself adjust to the reality of being inside my own mother.

"Move," she begged, her nails digging into my back. "Please, Ethan, move. Fuck me."

I began to thrust, slowly at first, then with increasing speed and force as her moans spurred me on. She wrapped her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my ass, urging me deeper, harder. Our bodies moved together in a rhythm as old as time, mother and son, joined in the most intimate way possible.

"Look at me," she commanded, her eyes shining with tears and lust. "Look at your mother while you fuck her. Tell me who I am."

"You're my mom," I groaned, pounding into her with abandon. "You're my mother, and I'm fucking you. I'm fucking my mom's tight pussy, and it feels so fucking good."

"Yes," she hissed, her head thrown back in ecstasy. "Yes, baby, tell me. Tell me how much you love fucking your mother."

"I love it," I admitted, the words flowing freely now that the dam had broken. "I love fucking you, Mom. I love being inside you. I love how wet you are for me, how tight, how perfect. I'm gonna cum inside you, Mom. I'm gonna fill you up with my cum."

"Do it," she urged, her own orgasm building again. "Cum in me, Ethan. Cum in your mother's pussy. Mark me. Claim me. Make me yours forever."

I felt my release approaching, my balls tightening, my cock swelling inside her. "Mom, I'm gonna... I'm cumming..."

"Cum with me," she screamed, her pussy clamping down on me in rhythmic spasms. "Cum with your mother, baby!"

I exploded, my cock pulsing as I shot deep inside her, filling her with my seed. She milked me with her muscles, her own orgasm ripping through her, and we clung to each other, shaking and sweating and crying out in the darkness, two bodies joined as one.

When it was over, I collapsed on top of her, still inside her, my face buried in her neck. She stroked my hair, her breathing slowly returning to normal, and pressed a kiss to my temple.

"Welcome home, baby," she whispered. "Welcome home."

That first night was only the beginning. What followed was a summer of sexual exploration and emotional intensity that defied description. We fucked everywhere—in her bed, in my bed, in the shower, on the kitchen table, by the pool under the stars. We learned each other's bodies with the thoroughness of scholars, discovering what made each other gasp, what made each other beg, what made each other cum harder than we thought possible.

Mom was insatiable, and I was more than happy to keep up with her demands. She taught me things I'd never imagined—how to edge her for hours until she was begging for release, how to make her squirt with just the right angle of my fingers, how to dominate her in a way that made her feel safe and cherished even as I called her my dirty slut and fucked her like she was nothing more than a hole for my pleasure.

In turn, she showed me the depths of her submission to me, her son, her master in the bedroom if nowhere else. She would kneel for me, crawl for me, take my cock down her throat until her eyes watered and her mascara ran down her cheeks. She would spread herself open for me, presenting her holes for my inspection and use, begging me to fill her, to use her, to make her feel like the desirable woman she was.

"Tell me I'm pretty, Ethan," she'd whisper as I fucked her from behind, her face pressed into the mattress, her ass in the air. "Tell me I'm a good mom for letting her son fuck her."

"You're the best mom," I'd growl, slamming into her hard enough to make her scream. "The best fucking mom in the world, taking her son's cock like you were made for it."

"I was," she'd moan, pushing back against me. "I was made for you, Ethan. Made to be fucked by you. Made to take your cum."

And she did take it, every time, everywhere. I lost count of how many loads I pumped into her over those months—down her throat, in her pussy, on her tits, her face, her ass. She wanted it all, wanted me to mark her as mine in every possible way, and I was happy to oblige.

But it wasn't just the sex, though the sex was transcendent. It was the intimacy, the connection, the way she would look at me over breakfast, her eyes soft with love and lust, her hand reaching across the table to hold mine. It was the way we'd curl up on the couch to watch movies, her head in my lap, my fingers stroking her hair, both of us knowing that as soon as the credits rolled, I'd be bending her over the arm of the sofa and fucking her until she couldn't walk straight.

We developed a language all our own, a code of glances and touches that communicated our desires without words. A hand on my thigh under the dinner table meant she wanted me to take her as soon as we finished eating. A particular look in her eyes when she was getting ready for bed meant she wanted it slow and tender, a lovemaking session that lasted for hours. If she bit her lip while looking at me, it meant she wanted it rough, wanted me to throw her down and take her like an animal, to make her feel used and owned and completely possessed.

I learned to read her body like a book, to know from the way she moved, the way she breathed, exactly what she needed in that moment. And she learned me just as thoroughly, knowing exactly how to touch me, how to suck me, how to move her hips to drive me absolutely wild.

"You're going to ruin me for other women," I told her one afternoon, as we lay tangled together in her bed, the sheets damp with sweat and other fluids.

"Good," she purred, tracing patterns on my chest with her fingernail. "I don't want you to ever want another woman. I want to be everything you need, Ethan. Your mother, your lover, your whore. Whatever you want, whenever you want it."

"You already are," I assured her, rolling her over and sliding back into her, already hard again despite having cum twice that morning. "You're everything, Mom. You're my whole world."

She wrapped herself around me, her legs, her arms, her soul, and we moved together with a synchronicity that felt predestined, inevitable. We came together, as we always did, her pussy milking my cock as I filled her with my seed, and in that moment, there was no right or wrong, no taboo or forbidden—only love, only lust, only the perfect union of two people who were meant to be together in every possible way.

The summer couldn't last forever, of course. As August drew to a close, the reality of my senior year loomed before me. We'd talked about it in abstract terms, but as the days grew shorter and the nights cooler, we couldn't avoid the conversation any longer.

"You're going back to school," Mom said one evening, as we sat on the back porch watching the fireflies dance in the twilight. It wasn't a question.

"I have to," I said, though the words felt like ash in my mouth. "I only have one year left, Mom. I need to finish."

"I know," she said softly, leaning her head against my shoulder. "And I would never ask you to give that up. But Ethan... I don't know how I'm going to survive without you. These past few months... you've given me something I never thought I'd have again. Passion. Connection. Love that consumes me completely."

I turned to face her, taking her hands in mine. "Mom, this isn't the end. I'm not leaving you. I'll come home every weekend. Every chance I get. And when I graduate... we'll figure it out. We'll be together. I promise."

She searched my eyes, looking for the truth, and must have found it, because she smiled, though tears were gathering in her own. "I believe you," she whispered. "I trust you, Ethan. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom," I said, and I kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears, the sweetness of her lips, the essence of the woman who had become my entire world.

We made love that night with a desperation that bordered on violence, clinging to each other as if we could stop time through sheer force of will. I fucked her until she was raw, until she was begging me to stop, to keep going, to never stop, to never leave her. I filled her with my cum three times, marking her as mine, ensuring that even when I was gone, a part of me would still be inside her.

And when dawn broke, we held each other and made promises that we both intended to keep—promises of fidelity, of devotion, of a future where we could be together openly, without shame or fear.

"I'll wait for you," she promised, her voice muffled against my chest. "However long it takes. I'll wait."

"And I'll come back for you," I vowed. "Always. You're my mother, my lover, my everything. Nothing will ever change that."

As I packed my bags that morning, as I kissed her goodbye at the door, as I drove away with my heart in my throat and her scent still clinging to my skin, I knew that I was leaving a part of myself behind. But I also knew that I would return, that this was not an ending but merely an interlude, and that the woman waiting for me was worth any sacrifice, any struggle, any wait.

The summer of my submission had ended, but our story was only beginning. And as I hit the highway, heading back to the life I'd temporarily abandoned, I smiled to myself, already counting the days until I could come home to the only woman I'd ever truly loved—the woman who had given me life, and who had, in turn, given me everything worth living for.

My mother. My lover. My forever.