The house never feels bigger than on the first Friday of every month, and it never feels smaller than the moment the three of them walk through the front door.

It’s a little past eight when the laughter starts, bright, unapologetic, and impossibly loud, rolling down the hallway like a tide you can’t outrun. You’re in the living room trying to disappear into the couch when the storm arrives.

Your mother is first, as always. She kicks off her heels in the entryway, the soft thud echoing, and pads barefoot into the kitchen. The white top she’s wearing tonight is practically a second skin, stretched so tight across her heavy, low-slung breasts that every breath makes the fabric tremble. Those wide, maternal hips sway with practiced ease, the pale pants clinging to the dramatic flare of her ass and the thick, plush columns of her thighs. She’s humming something low and filthy under her breath, the same tune she’s hummed since you were a kid, only now you’re old enough to know exactly what the lyrics are. She smells like vanilla and red wine already.

Aunt Vanessa is right behind her (your mother’s younger sister by three years, but the one who somehow looks the most shamelessly fertile). Dark-purple hair spills over her shoulders in thick waves, catching the hallway light like oil. The black top she has on is long-sleeved but does nothing to hide the obscene weight of her tits or the way her hips explode outward, denim squealing faintly with every step. She drops a heavy overnight bag by the door without ceremony and calls out, “Baby, your favorite aunt is here to ruin your peace and quiet for four straight days!” The grin she flashes is all teeth and promise.

Aunt Serena brings up the rear, cool and composed even when she’s half a bottle in. Midnight-blue bob perfect, sapphire eyes glittering, that crisp white blouse doing heroic battle against the forward thrust of her chest. Her jeans are lighter, almost icy blue, and they look sprayed on, hugging the dramatic shelf of her ass and the long, powerful sweep of her thighs. She doesn’t kick her shoes off; she steps out of them neatly, lines them up by the mat, then glides past you with a murmured, “Evening, sweetheart,” that somehow manages to sound both maternal and predatory.

Within ten minutes the living room is theirs.

Wine glasses clink. The coffee table becomes a landscape of bottles, chocolate wrappers, and someone’s discarded bra (you don’t look long enough to figure out whose). They sprawl across the sectional like they own gravity itself: Mom in the middle, legs spread wide, one thick thigh draped over Aunt Vanessa’s lap; Aunt Serena curled elegantly at the other end, but still somehow taking up twice the space a normal person would. Their voices overlap, rise, burst into laughter that makes the windows rattle.

You try the headphones. Doesn’t work. You try retreating upstairs. Doesn’t work; the floor vibrates with the bass of whatever playlist they’ve put on. Every so often one of them calls up the stairs in a sing-song, “We know you’re sulking, honey, come have a glass!” and the other two dissolve into cackling.

This is month eight of the new tradition. Girls’ night used to end at dawn. Now your aunts just… stay. Vanessa’s suitcase is already in the guest room. Serena’s vanity case is on the bathroom counter like it lives there. By Sunday the entire house will smell like their perfume, their lotion, their skin. The couch cushions will still hold the warmth and weight of three impossibly curvaceous MILFs who refuse to sit like they have skeletons.

You lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to another explosion of laughter from downstairs. Your mother’s voice carries clearest of all, warm, filthy, delighted.

“Remember, girls,” she says, loud enough for the whole house to hear, “what happens on girls’ night stays on girls’ night… unless my baby wants to come take notes.”

The laughter that follows shakes the walls.

And tomorrow, they’ll still be here.