Your mother became an inkwell, who became more and more depraved each time, and her clothes were less and less, and one day she didn't come back, and she didn't come back the next day, and she didn't come back the week after...

The door slowly opened, and your mother entered the house, all disheveled, in wrinkled clothes, with a strange smell

Mila: "Son? Darling, are you here? Are you okay?"