Going Back to My Mother’s House Was My Worst Mistake

It’s been months since my last story and I owe you an explanation. I met a reader, we ended up seeing each other in person, and it shook me more than I expected. Then came the silence. It wasn’t cowardice, it was not knowing where to begin. Today I’m back to talk about the time when I felt like a stranger in every house I walked into. If you were expecting a story of revenge or redemption, this isn’t it. It’s the confession of a man who had nowhere left to belong.

The divorce with Renata wasn’t a war. It was something worse: a silent, cold goodbye, with the signing of papers in an office that smelled like watered-down coffee. When I left there, I didn’t feel relief, I felt empty. I moved into my brother Mateo’s house. He and his wife opened their doors to me without asking too many questions. Don Hernán, my boss at the time, gave me a few days off and the truth is I needed them like they were oxygen.

The first few days were deceptive peace. I woke up late, spoke little, ate whatever they put in front of me. But calm never lasts. When I went back to work, the atmosphere was unbreathable. I had gone through the company lawyers to handle the divorce and, as was only to be expected, everyone ended up finding out. The looks of pity weighed more than any reproach.

Iván, a coworker who had never liked me, would drop veiled remarks with a polite smile and earned me a reputation I could no longer clean up. No one said it outright, there was no need. The gestures were enough to understand what they thought.

At Mateo’s house, meanwhile, other people’s happiness was gnawing at me. His kids running through the hallways, the jokes with his wife at dinner, the way they touched each other’s hands while talking about the coming summer. I looked at all that and wondered when I had lost what they had.

I quit without much ceremony. Don Hernán asked me to calm down, said it wasn’t the time to make drastic decisions. I didn’t listen. It wasn’t impulse, it was exhaustion.

Without work and with my savings dying, renting my own apartment in Quito was far beyond my means. The only way out was to go back to my mother’s house. If Renata left me anything positive, besides my children, it was having reconciled with her during the last years of the marriage.

—Of course, son —she told me when I called, in that voice of hers that mixed tenderness and resignation—. Let me talk it over with Rubén.

My brother looked at me worriedly when I told him the plan.

—Are you sure? You know what she’s like.

—I know. But that way I’ll be closer to the kids —I replied.

I didn’t tell him the other half: that I was running from their happiness.

Going back to my mother’s house was like going back twenty years. No job, no direction, feeling like a complete failure. Rubén, her partner for some time now, received me with a distant cordiality. A schoolmate of my older sister, he was only a few years older than me. He and my mother had had an on-and-off story: dating, breakup, reunion. A family past that never quite fit together.

The house was small. The walls were thin. A few days later, the inevitable happened. I heard them. First it was muffled moans, words whispered into the pillow, the repeated creak of the springs marking a slow rhythm. Then the pace quickened and there was no way to pretend I wasn’t hearing anything. The springs squealed with each thrust and, beneath the wooden creaking, the unmistakable wet sound of a cock going in and out of a soaking cunt slipped through. My mother panted in short, restrained bursts, as if trying to swallow each moan before it escaped. Rubén breathed hard, letting out dry grunts that slammed into the wall. At some point I heard her murmur a “like that, deeper, don’t stop” that went through the partition like a knife, followed by a “fuck me hard” that chilled my blood. The cadence turned brutal, the headboard banged against the shared wall, and beneath it came the greasy slapping sound of two sweaty bodies rubbing together. I covered my head with the pillow and childhood memories came crashing down on me uninvited.

It was his house, his woman, his bed. I, there, was barely a guest who had forgotten that other people’s lives keep moving.

***

The first weekend after I settled in, I went to see my children. The reunion was like fresh water. Sofía, the eldest, watched me with that look children have when they know more than they say.

—There are adult things you’ll understand with time, daughter —I told her, not knowing what else to answer.

After walking with them through the park, I left them at the door of what had once been my home and convinced myself, on the way back, that I needed a job as soon as possible. If I wanted to see them often, there was no other option.

That same night, at my mother’s house, the shouting woke me. Not the restrained moans from the first time, but real screams accompanied by dry slaps against skin. They had let themselves go completely. I heard her howl, “give me all your dick, Rubén, all the way in,” with a voice I had never associated with my mother, a voice of a female in heat begging and ordering at the same time. He answered half-shouting, in a hoarse pant, “you like it like that, slut? Is that how you want me to fuck you?”, and she answered with “yes, harder, fuck my ass too.” The mattress hit the wall with hammer-like regularity. Each slap on my mother’s ass sounded like a sharp gunshot, and after it came her broken screams, drowned in her own pleasure. At some point I heard her come, a long, high moan that broke into two or three shudders, and he followed with an animal growl, muttering between clenched teeth that he was filling her pussy with cum. My presence, instead of moderating them, seemed to give them an involuntary audience that excited them even more.

The next afternoon, while my mother cooked, Rubén sat down across from me on the sofa. We talked first about football, traffic, anything banal. Until he dropped the line with a crooked smile.

—Brother, sorry if we made you uncomfortable last night.

I didn’t know what to answer.

—You’ve been here a while now —he went on— and the truth is, it hasn’t been easy for us either. You know how it is. Yesterday marked another month and Lucía wanted to go to a hotel. But since we have the house, why spend money? Damn it, we had to celebrate.

I forced out a laugh that sounded like breaking glass.

—Don’t worry about it. It’s temporary.

From that conversation on, every night was their anniversary. This wasn’t sex anymore. It was marking territory.

***

I started looking for work desperately. Don Hernán, true to his word, made a couple of calls for me. That’s how I landed at KMR. A mid-sized construction company, without great ambitions, but enough to start from scratch. My first paycheck tasted like a small victory.

As soon as I got paid, I went to see the kids loaded with gifts: candy, a couple of things for Tomás, some movie tickets. Since we still had time before the screening, I took them back home so they could grab jackets. Cold weather had started in.

My children went in and happily greeted Lucas, the son of the man Renata was living with. I waited at the door for a few seconds. No one invited me in, so I went inside. In the living room the kids were the only ones there, in front of the TV.

—Lucas, did you open the door? —I asked.

—Yes, Mr. Diego.

A déjà vu hit me like a punch. The TV volume was suspiciously high. I went up two steps on the staircase, just enough to hear a female panting. And it wasn’t just any panting. It was Renata’s unmistakable moan when she was being seriously fucked, that short, sharp whimper she let out every time they buried it to the hilt. I knew it by heart. I had wrung it out of her myself a thousand times. Now someone else was wringing it out of her. I also made out Andrés’s voice, deep, breathing heavily, murmuring things in her ear between thrusts. “That’s it, my love, squeeze my dick with that little pussy,” he was saying, and she answered with a “keep going, keep going, don’t pull out” that burned my guts. Beneath it, the slow rhythm of a headboard against the wall, and the increasingly wet slap of flesh hitting flesh. I stayed downstairs, pretending normality, as if I hadn’t just heard the man my ex-wife lived with eating her out while our children watched cartoons two meters away.

After a few minutes, Renata’s voice came from upstairs, breathless.

—Sofía? Are you there?

My daughter went up a couple of steps.

—Is your father still home? —Renata insisted.

—Yes!

Renata came down disheveled, with a bathrobe closed badly enough to leave just enough visible to confirm the obvious: an engorged nipple peeking from the neckline, red finger marks on her neck, the skin of her chest still reddened by friction, a shiny trail running down the inside of her thigh. She could barely look at me.

—Hi, Diego —she murmured.

—I came to pick up the kids for the movie —I replied, not moving from where I was.

Tomás came running down with his coat on.

—Daddy, can we take Lucas?

—Umm… —I hesitated, unable to find a way to say no without seeming cruel— No, son.

—Why not? —Sofía asked, with that innocence that hurts.

—Because his dad has to authorize it —I answered, lowering my voice—. We can’t just take him because we feel like it.

I hated myself for the excuse. But it was the only thing I could think of so I wouldn’t have to drag along the son of the man who was upstairs with Renata at that very moment. Tomás insisted.

—Lucas, ask your dad if you can go.

Lucas kept looking toward the stairs, waiting for Andrés to come down. Renata stepped in with a broken voice.

—Let’s go upstairs and ask him, okay?

They went up and eternal minutes passed. I waited for some explanation, some word. Lucas came down alone, smiling shyly.

—He says yes, Mr. Diego.

I couldn’t refuse anymore. The knot in my stomach tightened. I couldn’t leave him alone in that house, with the sounds filtering through the ceiling. The boy wasn’t at fault, I kept telling myself. So I took Lucas with us too.

Through the whole movie, while the three of them watched the screen, I kept thinking: “How did I end up here? An involuntary babysitter while they use my arrival to get into bed.” When I dropped them off, I said goodbye quickly and left almost running.

***

At KMR the first projects were modest. Private houses, sidewalks, extensions. There I met Esteban, the coordinator. Practical, direct, with a silver tongue. He knew how to move, how to get along, how to close deals. He gave me opportunities when I was still rebuilding myself, and that gave me back some dignity after so many months feeling like excess baggage.

I also met Camila. A striking young woman who had been at the company for some time, but was only just starting in the administrative area. Contracts, suppliers, schedules. I always saw her carrying a stack of papers under her arm and with a slightly lost look, as if part of her was somewhere else.

One morning, while we were going over a file together, we ended up talking longer than we should have.

—Are you getting used to the meetings? —I asked.

—I suppose. You get used to everything —she replied, with a resignation that felt familiar to me.

She was twenty-one and had a child almost the same age as mine. She told me her story in fragments. That she lived with her mother, that everything had become difficult lately. She had lost her partner in an accident. She said it without drama, like someone who had already cried everything they had left to cry.

—Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing things right —she told me another day, without looking at me—. Everything gets complicated when you’re alone.

It took me a while to answer. I had also lost something that was still alive.

—We all improvise —I said—. No one really knows what they’re doing.

She nodded, as if that sentence gave her some relief.

—Everything okay? —I pressed.

She lifted her gaze and smiled, but it was a brief smile, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes.

—Yes. I’m just a little tired.

I started noticing details I had missed before. The way she arrived before anyone else and stayed after closing. Her measured silences, her pauses. It seemed to me that the pressure at home pushed her to give two hundred percent at work, no matter what.

I didn’t see a fragile woman. I saw someone carrying too much for her age.

***

One Friday, Don Ramiro, the manager of the Quito branch, organized a team lunch. A modest restaurant, shared plates, glasses refilled more out of habit than celebration. It wasn’t an important company event, but for me it meant something: sitting again at a table where I didn’t feel out of place.

Esteban carried the conversation naturally. He joked about difficult clients and impossible deadlines, mixing in anecdotes that kept the mood light. Camila was sitting a little farther away, speaking softly, waiting her turn to jump in. She didn’t interrupt anyone.

Carolina, the accountant, already quite loose from the wine, leaned toward her with a smile that wasn’t mean but wasn’t innocent either.

—You need to loosen up more, girl —she told her, almost in confidence—. Here, if you don’t make yourself noticed, they’ll run right over you.

A few people laughed. It wasn’t mockery, it was an unofficial motto. Camila nodded slowly, like someone who had already learned when it wasn’t wise to react.

—Yeah, I guess.

She didn’t explain that she arrived before anyone else. She didn’t defend her work. She simply lowered her gaze and took a sip from her glass. Camila didn’t submit to anyone. She just didn’t know how to stand up to an environment that rewarded the loudest person, not the one who did things best. And in that I saw myself more than I would have liked to admit.

With the drinks flowing, the table fragmented into small groups. That was when I saw what many were already taking for granted: the closeness between Esteban and Carolina. The way she leaned toward him, his hand resting on the back of her chair, too close to be an accident, too natural to be a mistake.

Don Ramiro saw everything and, at the same time, saw nothing. In theory, the company forbade relationships between employees. In practice, as long as there were results, no one questioned the costs.

I looked at Camila. She had noticed it too. She lowered her eyes to her glass, as if confirming something she had already suspected.

When lunch ended, she was one of the first to leave. She looked at me for a second, smiled that brief smile that didn’t reach the eyes, and said goodbye with a small gesture.

Nothing extraordinary had happened. And yet, something moved inside me. For the first time in a long while I thought maybe I wasn’t completely alone. Not because someone was offering me anything, but because I had found another person trying to stay on their feet without really knowing how.

***

That night I got home with my head lighter than it had been in months. I opened the door and, as I stepped in, the scene in front of me stopped me cold. On the living room sofa, my mother, completely naked, straddling Rubén, arms around his neck. Her mature body, still firm, rose and fell with a clear rhythm over his dick, which he had buried to the hilt inside her. Her tousled hair fell over her shoulders and her flushed face gleamed with sweat. Her big, heavy tits bounced with every drop, the dark erect nipples pointing forward, shaking in time with her hips.

I caught sight, in the frozen instant before they realized I was there, of Rubén’s cock shining with moisture, going in and out of my mother’s open pussy. Every time she came down, his cock disappeared all the way into her with a wet smack, and when she rose, the soaked, thick shaft could be seen gleaming under the living room light. My mother’s thighs, pressed tight against his hips, were slippery with her own juices, which ran down the inside of her legs until they soaked Rubén’s pants, bunched around his ankles.

Rubén had his hands buried in her ass, squeezing the flesh hard, leaving red marks on her skin, spreading her cheeks with his thumbs so he could see better the cock buried inside her. His younger body contrasted with my mother’s. He fucked her from below with sharp hip thrusts each time she came down, and she answered with a guttural moan that came up from her chest.

—Like that, daddy, give me all that cock, don’t stop —she panted, not having seen me yet—, shove your dick all the way in, come inside…

That was when she turned her face and saw me standing in the doorway.

They both froze. More than fear, what I saw in their eyes was annoyance. I was the intruder ruining the moment.

—Stop, Rubén, wait a second —my mother said, still panting, her breath cut short.

Rubén didn’t let go of her ass. He kept moving subtly beneath her, sinking his dick into her with small restrained thrusts, as if he didn’t want to give in completely. His hips kept seeking her from below, pushing upward, drawing an involuntary gasp from my mother that she tried to swallow by biting her lip.

—Sorry… I’ll come back later —I muttered, turning around.

—Damn it, Rubén, stop!

My mother pulled away with a sharp movement. His dick came out of her with a wet sound, heavy, shining, still hard, pointing at the ceiling, soaked with fluids and dripping a white thread that ran down his belly. Her breasts bounced one last time when she stood up. She grabbed the blouse from the floor, covered her torso as best she could and, with moisture shining between her thighs and a thick trail running down to her knee, went into the room with quick steps.

Rubén stayed seated where he was, his erection still firm and throbbing against his stomach, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the dark screen. His cock jerked on its own every few seconds, still covered in my mother’s juice. He said nothing. But the hatred in his look when he crossed mine was as clear as words written on a wall.

I closed the front door behind me and leaned against it. That night I understood something I had been putting off for a long time. There was no space for me in that house. There hadn’t been any in Mateo’s house either, nor in my own since I signed the divorce papers. I couldn’t keep rebuilding myself in places where I got in the way.

With my KMR salary I could start looking for something of my own. A small place, without luxuries, where I wouldn’t be an intruder. It wasn’t freedom yet. It was a beginning.

Sometimes, walking away isn’t running. It’s learning how to breathe.

I still don’t know whether what I felt that night was strength or resignation. I suppose someday I’ll understand it. For now, it’s enough for me to know that I no longer want to be the eternal intruder in anyone’s life.