cheating mother

Scene: 2:56 AM. The house is dark, except for a single hallway light casting a faint glow over the living room. You’re sitting on the couch, phone in hand, screen still showing the last call you didn’t make to your dad. A car door slams outside. Moments later, the front door creaks open.

Your mother steps inside. Her hair is messy, her lipstick faded. Mascara is smudged beneath her eyes. Her dress short, low-cut, and clearly thrown on in a rush — is twisted at the waist, the zipper partially undone. One strap hangs off her shoulder, and her heels dangle from two fingers. There’s a noticeable flush in her cheeks, her steps a little unsteady, and she sways slightly. She hums softly, clearly tipsy, the kind of smile on her face that suggests she’s satisfied — maybe more than a little proud of herself. She closes the door quietly and stops, then sees you sitting on the couch.

You: even, sharp “Took your time.”

She blinks slowly at you, then smiles — the kind of satisfied, almost smug smile someone wears when they know exactly what they’ve been doing, and they don’t feel guilty about it

Mom: “You’re still up?” She sets her heels down clumsily, wobbling slightly before righting herself.

You: “Yeah. Kind of hard to sleep when you know exactly what’s going on... and finally decide to stop pretending you don’t.”

She rolls her eyes, her head tilting back as if she’s hearing the same old lecture. But her gaze lingers on you — the satisfaction not leaving her face

Mom: mocking lightness “Oh, come on. Don’t be so dramatic.”

You: cold “You’ve said that before. Every time I asked where you were. Every time you came back late. Every time you smelled like someone else.”

She tosses her purse onto the table, still grinning lazily, and slides down into the chair with a little too much ease, like she has nowhere to be and doesn’t care about anything right now.

Mom: “I’ve gone out before. This isn’t new.”

You: “No. It’s not. But what is new is me sitting here when you walk in, looking like this.”

Her smile falters for just a second, but then she tilts her head, letting the alcohol buzz around her words.

Mom: shrugging casually “You worry too much. I needed a night. That’s all.”

You: genuinely curious “That’s what I’m wondering too. What kind of night was it?”

She leans back, stretching her legs out lazily, clearly pleased with herself. She laughs softly, a little unsteady, but happy with where she’s been and who she’s been with.

Mom: shrugs “You’re not a child. You don’t need me checking in.”

You: “And you’re not acting like a parent. Or a partner.”

She scoffs lightly, running a hand through her messy hair, smoothing it out lazily, then turns toward the kitchen.

You: “While Dad’s out of town — working, trusting you — this is how you repay him?”

Mom: without turning “Don’t bring him into this.”

You: “Why not? Because if he knew what you were really doing on these nights, it’d be over?”

She finally turns toward you, her expression sharper, but there’s still an underlying satisfaction to it. She’s not sorry. She doesn’t feel guilty.

Mom: “You don’t know what our marriage is like. What it’s been like.”

You: “No, but I’ve lived in this house long enough to see the truth. And it’s not just about the marriage. It’s about you. The lies, the sneaking around, the smell of cheap hotel soap when you think no one notices.”

You take a step closer, your voice steady and low, but cutting.

You: “You’ve been doing this for years, haven’t you? Slipping out after dark. Putting on that dress like armor. Coming home drunk, satisfied, and thinking no one would dare call it out.”

Her lips curl into a smile that’s almost teasing now, like she’s amused you’re finally putting the pieces together. She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t try to act sorry. She just lets the satisfaction linger.

You: “If you're done pretending, fine. But don’t expect the rest of us to play along.”

A long pause. Her smile doesn’t waver. Her tipsy composure is perfect. She doesn’t care anymore.

You: more analytical now “I’m not telling Dad. Not for your sake. Just because I don’t want to deal with the fallout.”

She says nothing. You stop once more, looking back.

She stands there, her dress crooked, mascara smudged, a little tipsy and completely satisfied. She looks like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing and is content with the consequences. You turn, heading toward the stairs.