One day, my mother came home covered in mud. As she lay limply asleep on the sofa, her clothes disheveled, I caught a glimpse of her underwear and felt something strange stirring inside me. In that moment, I couldn't suppress the urge to touch her body—though my reason screamed that it was wrong, my emotions spiraled out of control. From that day on, the way I saw my mother changed completely. She was no longer just my mother; I could only see her as a woman. When I overheard talk of her remarrying, I froze, overwhelmed by a paralyzing fear of losing her.