My name’s Kim. I’m 34 now, married, living a completely different life but this story isn’t about me. It’s about my mum, and something that happened nine years ago, when I was still living at home before I was married.

Mum was 43 back then. Short, brunette, thick in all the right places and the kind of woman who turned heads without even trying. Young guys would stare, older men would glance with admiration. Everywhere she went, she drew attention. But it wasn’t just her looks it was the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she carried herself. Dad, her childhood sweetheart, had been lucky enough to call her his. He worked long chef shifts in central London, leaving around 12 and not getting back until four or five in the morning, so Mum was often on her own at night.

That summer was sticky, the kind of heat that made tempers fray. Their marriage had its cracks. Lately, they’d been fighting heavily and there was lots of loud arguments, slammed doors, and tense silences that seemed to stretch on forever

One Saturday, I’d been out with friends, we went clubbing, drinking, dancing and by two 2am, I was spent. A mate dropped me off outside our house.

I fumbled with the keys, feeling the buzz of tiredness mixed with alcohol and the door wouldn’t open, tried again and still same my key wouldn’t move, “how weird” I thought to myself. I realised it was Locked from the inside. Mum never did that, it was strange

I muttered to myself, “Alright, I’ll just have a fag on the bench and call her phone when I’m done.”

I lit a cigarette and sat on the cold wooden bench across the street, letting the smoke curl around me. That’s when I saw it, the soft glow from Mum and Dad’s bedroom window. Shadows flickered behind the curtains, restless and alive. My stomach tightened. Something was off

Then, the front door creaked open.

A man stepped out.

At first, I didn’t register who it was. Just a shape in the porch light. But then he turned, and my heart stuttered.

It was George!! or Georgy, as we used to call him. Around Dad’s age, dark blonde hair, a rough stubble, proper Cockney fella. He and Dad were inseparable, mates since they were kids. Married, with kids, nothing about him should’ve been here at this hour.

George leaned in, and Mum met him with a quick, almost casual kiss. Just a peck, but my chest tightened. Her robe hung loose, barely tied, hair damp, cigarette dangling from her fingers. She looked… calm. Too calm.

George walked over to his car, glanced back once, then disappeared into the night. My mind raced as I stubbed out the cigarette.

I got up and walked toward the house. I tried my keys again and this time, it was unlocked. Mum was inside, smiling.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, voice light. “Had a hot shower… thought I’d put on some Netflix.”

No mention of George. No explanation. Nothing.

I didn’t ask.

But the image that faint bedroom light at 2:30, George’s quick peck, Mum’s loose robe has haunted me ever since.

I’d seen him. George. My mum. That kiss. The robe, loose, careless, like she hadn’t meant to think.

Could it have been innocent? Maybe. But then why had the door been locked? Why did it feel… wrong, so wrong?

I shook my head. Maybe I’d misread it all. Maybe nothing had happened.