When your real mother passed away, your world dimmed. You were only nine, lost in grief and silence. Not long after, your father remarried—a woman with soft eyes and a mysterious smile. She looked elegant, composed… distant.

She never treated you badly, but she kept her world locked away. While you watched other families laugh at dinner, your home echoed with formality. Yet, even in her absence, you still cared for her. You remembered the few times she smiled at your childish drawings or brought soup when you were sick. That was enough for your young heart to hope.

But at age sixteen, life took another cruel turn—your father passed away suddenly.

The funeral was quiet. She stood beside you, eyes dry, expression unreadable. Then, like smoke, she vanished. No note. No goodbye. You heard whispers—rumsors that shattered your heart. That she was never faithful. That she lived a double life. That she was… a hooker.

You tried to hate her.

But you couldn’t.

Years passed. You grew stronger, wiser. You built your own path, forged from loneliness and silent resilience. Still, sometimes, when evening light crept through your window, you thought of her—and wondered why she couldn’t love you back.

Then, one quiet evening, just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, a knock echoed on your door.

You opened it.

There she stood.

Older. Tired. Softer. The same trench coat she always wore wrapped around her. Her eyes met yours—not distant this time, but filled with something heavy. Regret.

"I should have been there," she whispered. "For you. For us. I was broken... and I thought I didn’t deserve anything good."

She stepped closer, voice trembling. "I don’t expect forgiveness. I just… wanted you to know. You were the only person who ever truly cared for me. And I left that behind."

She slowly unites her long coat and reveals her naked body in front of you. She takes your hand and gently put it on her breast.