You Were Born Reaching For Your Mother's Hand Novels & Stories

I tried to "No. You're just playing hard to get. Women like you always do." His other hand came up to touch my face. I jerked my head back. "You were so kind to my mother. You held her hand when she died. You made her last days bearable. Don't you see? You're perfect. You're exactly what I need."

Smiling, she took his hands in hers before guiding them up to the gates of heaven. Wanting to draw out the tension to its breaking point, she continued to pause for a few seconds longer before finally pushing his hands up and onto her breasts. "Go on sweetie, bounce them up and down in your hands so you can see how big and soft your mommy's boobies really are . . . just like you have been dreaming about for so long." Bobby, a pure and wholesome virgin, finally was able to realize his life-long dream of putting his hands on a pair of big beautiful tits—he just never imagined it would be his mom's tits he would be feeling up for the first time.

I held her fragile hand tightly, not wanting to let go. "It's me, Mom," I whispered, my voice breaking with emotion. "Please, fight for us. I need you here with me." My words hung in the air, full of love and urgency, as they carefully took her toward the ambulance. The flashing lights created a surreal atmosphere, a distant promise of hope on a turbulent night.

She turned toward my finger, reflexively, and my heart cracked open all over again. "Hey, baby girl." My voice was barely a whisper. "Mama's going home today. But I'll be back tomorrow. I'll always come back. I promise." Her eyes stayed closed, but her little hand twitched, reaching for something. I offered my finger, and she gripped it—that same fierce grip she'd had since birth, like she was determined to hold on no matter what.

“I’m not ready to lose y-y-you. I don't want t-to lose you.” My mother reached for my cheek and I allowed myself to seep the warmth of her soft hand. “You’re not going to lose me, Aera dearest. I will be with you forever. In here...” she pointed to my heart with a tender smile and she started to cough terribly, non-stop, until blood discharged from her hand.

I stood up from the seat, eyes glued to her hand, as though hoping she would move again and confirm that what I had felt was real, that Mother… Mother was regaining control over her body. “I felt it, Mom. You moved your finger,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “Could you move it again? Just this once? Please, move it for me.” Please, Mother. Move. Do anything. Show me that you are here, that you can make it, that you can wake up, that we can be together again. Just us. Like a family. My trembling eyes stayed fixed on her hand, hoping, praying that it would move but a second passed. And then another. And another.

I don't have clean words for the next part. I remember my mum’s hand crushed in mine, her voice in my ear, you were born fighting and so were they, go, go, my girl. I remember Grace on the other side, white as paper, holding my other hand and swearing under her breath like a sailor and not once letting go. I remember pain that stopped being pain and became a kind of work, the hardest work of my life, a thing my whole body had been built for and broken over and was finally, finally allowed to finish.

As he spoke, the hand holding the stinking cigar moved toward my newborn son's mouth. His other filthy hand was even reaching to undo the baby's swaddle, to touch his body. I screamed. A mother's instinct took over. I lunged, sinking my teeth hard into the soft flesh of his hand between the thumb and forefinger. The taste of his blood filled my mouth. Carter yelped in pain, his grip instinctively loosening. Ignoring the tearing agony in my own wound, I threw myself forward like a madwoman, using my body to block the space between that filthy hand and the bassinet.

Her skin was as white as paper. “Mother…” I sighed. I placed my hand over hers, hoping she'd feel the warmth I was radiating. I wanted to reach inside her chest and pull the darkness out of her heart. “Can you hear me? Mother. Please. Don't do this” I begged her. I held onto her arm trying to find any bit of life, anything that might tell me that she was still with me.

It was my mother, the mother I had never known. Tears welled up in my eyes as I gazed at her, overwhelmed by a sense of profound joy and longing. She reached out her hand, and I took it without hesitation. Her touch was like a balm to my soul, an assurance that everything was going to be okay. We began to walk through the meadow together, our steps harmonizing in perfect synchrony. The grass beneath our feet felt soft and cool, and a gentle breeze brushed against our faces, carrying with it a sense of serenity. The world around us seemed to come alive, as if it recognized the significance of our meeting.