On the day of my graduation, however, one of my fellow male students said something that struck me as very odd when he saw my mother in the audience, at first not knowing that she was my mother. We were standing on the stage, waiting for our names to be called so that we could receive our diplomas and walk into the world as legal adults. “Man, check HER out! Whoever’s sleeping with her, he’s one lucky son of a bitch!”
I just turned to him, only slightly annoyed by his crassness. “That woman happens to be my mother. And she’s a widow.”
The boy blinked at me in surprise and then nodded. “Makes sense now,” he said casually and even actually smiled, which replaced my annoyance with confusion.
“What makes sense now?” I asked cagily.
He pointed at her. “I mean, LOOK at her!” he said. “Your mother, on a scale of one to ten in hotness, is like a fifty! She’s off the charts hot! NO WONDER you never had a girlfriend, man! You bring some girl home and she’ll feel like chopped liver compared to her. Hell, you probably saved yourself more grief than you’ll ever know by not dating any of the hags in our school!”
I looked around us and noticed several of our female schoolmates giving him dirty looks. “The girls in our school are anything but hags,” I said placidly, which earned a few appreciative smirks from the ones who looked ready to claw the other boy’s eyes out.
He just smirked and said, “Maybe, but none of them is like your mom.”
And that was when I had a sort of epiphany. I fell silent as my mind began to turn with thoughts inspired by this exchange. I cast my gaze out into the audience, looking directly at my mother with new eyes. She saw me staring at her and gave me a small, demure wave of support and love, a wisp of a smile on her ruby red lips. In that instant I found myself looking at her objectively, as a woman, and realized that what the other boy had said as absolutely true. Her large, firm breasts; her curvy hips; her well-toned legs; full, brunette hair that had natural ringlets; plump, kissable lips; beautiful blue eyes that look almost like still water; her pale, unblemished skin; her short stature that was perfectly proportioned; her thin waist and dainty hands. She wasn’t dressed provocatively, but every pore of her being screamed “I’M A MILF!” before the term had even been coined.
My mother was, far and away, a significantly more attractive woman than any of the girls standing around me on that stage. In every way I could conceive of, she was an absolute goddess in comparison to them. How had I not noticed this sooner? And, as attractive as she was, why was it that she did not have suitors banging down our front door? I could not remember a single instance where some man who was not my father came calling on her. Not even a lawyer or vacuum salesman. All these years, since my father’s death, she had been alone and devoted herself to nothing but my upbringing. We got along very well and spoke about a great deal many things in the privacy of our own home, but I suddenly realized that, what for all that she had taught me, I knew virtually nothing about HER. For the rest of my high school graduation ceremony I was locked in a brooding, pensive silence. I scarcely recall even shaking my principal’s hand as he handed my diploma to me, I was so engrossed in my thoughts about my mother.
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