Seven Mothers: All Seven Of My Mothers Are Heavenly Goddesses?!

"Hold up now, mom...So what you're basically saying is that I have to make all seven of my mothers, who have taken care of me since my birth, fall in love with me and also make sure that they give birth to your grandchildren to save the world I'm in?" 

I asked with a look of dismay on my face as I tried to process the absurd things that I had just heard from my actual mother, who was apparently a powerful Goddess from the Heaven's above. 

"Yes, my darling little son, Luca...That's exactly what your mother wants you to do." 

A charming and motherly voice came from the infinite white around me, a voice so sweet and warm that it melted into my bones and made me feel like I was floating on a fluffy cloud. 

The voice that belonged to my actual mother, who gave birth to me, then continued in her ever so jolly and carefree tone, 

"I want you to go and seduce every single one of your mothers back in your world to the extent that they throw away the boundaries of mother and son and completely devote their existences to you."

"...And then finally, after you've stolen all their hearts, I want you to put your seed in all of them at the same time, so that your trial to become a True God would be over, and you can finally take your throne by my side up here in the Heavens." 

My mother said some even more shocking words with an innocent giggle, like she were simply asking me to go to the supermarket and buy some groceries for her, instead of asking me to bang the same women I've been calling 'Mom' for the whole nineteen years of my life.

Well, I didn't really call my mothers 'Mom' until I was two years old, and till then I called them 'Mama' like every toddler would've...But you get what I'm trying to say, right?...Right?

...Well, of course you don't. 

...There's no way anyone would understand what's going on here.

You'd probably be wondering why one of my mothers was asking me to impregnate my other mothers?...How my actual mother was a Goddess when I was a mortal?...What was the difference between the mother talking to me right now and the other seven mothers I had?...How in the world do I even have seven mothers in the first place?...And finally, why in the world am I talking to myself like someone else can hear me?

Well, there's a long explanation for all of that, but I don't exactly have the time to narrate a full story of my life since my true mother was still breathing down my neck to accept that trial that she had given me, so I'll try to keep it short and simple.

My name is Luca Valencia. And as much as I want to say that I'm just a normal nineteen-year-old kid who's attending university just like every other kid my age, I sadly can't, as there are too many things that separate me from the rest and make me feel like I'm some sort of enigma planted into this world with a purpose.

I'm not being delusional, narcissistic, or acting like one of those weirdos who think of themselves as chosen ones, but that's just how it is. 

What is probably the most shocking thing about me that puts me apart from the rest of the world is the fact that I have seven mothers. 

You heard me right. 

Not three of four...But seven different mothers who are nothing alike and are wonderful in their own ways. 

Most people would assume my father must have been some kind of notorious playboy to explain how I ended up with seven different mothers. The idea of them being stepmothers, each tied to me through his frivolous relationships, seems like the most obvious explanation—a messy web of love and betrayal spun by a man who couldn't commit to a relationship.

But here's the twist: I don't even have a father. 

Not a single one...Yet, I still have seven mothers, each of whom has been by my side since the very day I was born. They weren't fleeting presences or temporary guardians; they've been my everything—my family, my caretakers, and my entire world for as long as I can remember.

From the moment I was a helpless toddler, crying for milk and making a mess of my diapers, all seven of my mothers were there, taking turns to care for me. They fed me, cleaned me, and played with me, ensuring I was always surrounded by love and attention. 

I don't remember much from those early years, just fleeting fragments of warmth and comfort. But the countless photos and videos of me with all seven of them tell a story I know to be true.

Even as I grew out of my toddler stage, my seven mothers were always present, each continuing to play a crucial role in my life. 

During my early school years, they ensured I was prepared for everything. One would pack my lunch, another would help with my homework, and a third would iron my school uniform. They made sure I never felt unprepared or unsupported.

When I struggled with academics, one of them patiently tutored me late into the night, while another encouraged me to take breaks and not overwork myself. They balanced each other perfectly, ensuring I didn't just excel in school but also enjoyed my childhood.

As I got older and my interests expanded, they adapted. When I showed interest in art, one of them brought me sketchbooks and paints, urging me to express myself. When I wanted to play sports, another would cheer the loudest at my matches, always ready with water and snacks to keep me going. 

One taught me the value of hard work and discipline, making sure I stayed consistent in my efforts, while another was always there to remind me to laugh and not take life too seriously.

When I hit my rebellious teenage years, they were unshaken. 

If I slammed doors or refused to listen, one of them would quietly wait for the storm to pass and talk to me later, calmly helping me see reason. Another would stand firm, ensuring I understood boundaries and consequences, even when I hated it at the time. They were patient through my mood swings and confusion, guiding me without ever making me feel judged.

During my first heartbreak, they rallied around me. One sat with me in silence, just being there. Another handed me tissues while another reminded me that pain was a part of life, but so was healing. They each knew exactly what to do, without stepping on each other's toes.

Now, even as an adult, they are still here. One used to call me every morning to remind me to eat breakfast, while another sends me links to articles she thinks I'd find interesting. They celebrate my successes as if they're their own and console me in my failures as if they've failed with me. 

Their unwavering support has been the backbone of my life, shaping me into who I am today.

Having seven mothers may sound impossible to some, but to me, it's simply life as I know it—a life filled with endless care, guidance, and unconditional love.

Honestly, I've never really understood how I ended up with seven mothers. 

As a child, I'd often wonder why my life was so different from my friends. Whenever I asked my mothers about it, they'd simply brush it off with warm smiles and say, 

"Does it really matter, Luca? You're our son, and that's all you need to know."

At first, their reassurance was enough. But as I grew older, curiosity got the better of me. 

'Why was my family so unique?'

'Why did I have so many parents when everyone else only had two?'

One day when I was about eight years old, I couldn't hold back anymore. I threw a full-blown tantrum, demanding answers. If they weren't going to tell me, I wouldn't eat, sleep, or even talk to them. 

I wanted to know the truth.

After a long session of pleading, sulking, and dramatic tears, one of them finally gave in. Sitting me down, they told me a story I'll never forget.

"You actually have an eighth mother, Luca" One of them began, her voice soft but serious. "She's the one who gave birth to you." 

I was stunned...Eight mothers?...That was beyond anything I had imagined. 

They explained that my biological mother lived far away, in a distant place, because of an important job she couldn't leave. She couldn't care for me the way she wanted to and made the difficult decision to entrust me to them.

I remember asking, "But why seven of you? Why not just one?"

Another mother leaned in with a gentle smile, brushing my hair away from my face. 

"Because she wanted you to experience seven times the love most children do...She knew she couldn't be with you, so she made sure you'd never feel her absence. Each of us was chosen to give you something special, so you'd never feel like you missed out."

Hearing that made my tantrum dissolve into silence. 

Even as a child, I could sense the immense love behind such a decision. It was overwhelming to think that my mother, despite being far away, had orchestrated such an incredible support system for me. 

Though I didn't fully understand it then, I knew one thing: I was loved—by my seven mothers and by the eighth mother who had made it all possible.

From that day forward, I stopped questioning why my family was different...I embraced it. 

After all, how many people can say they've been loved so much it had to be divided among seven extraordinary women?

But as much as I loved being surrounded by my seven mothers, things started to shift as I grew older. 

For most of my childhood, it was easy to see them purely as my mothers—warm, nurturing, and endlessly supportive. 

But after learning the truth, after realising they weren't technically my "real" mothers but rather caretakers who had taken on the role, something began to change.

At first, it was just a lingering thought that I quickly dismissed. But as the years went by and I grew into adolescence, I couldn't stop myself from noticing things about them that I shouldn't have. 

Their smiles, their voices, the way they carried themselves. They weren't just motherly figures anymore—they were women, and I couldn't help but see them that way.

I tried to fight it. I told myself it was wrong, that I shouldn't think like that about the people who had raised me...But honestly, how could I not? 

Their beauty alone was unmatched, something no other woman I've met could even begin to compare to. But it wasn't just their looks—it was their grace, their warmth, the way they could effortlessly brighten a room just by being in it. 

Each of them possessed talents and strengths that seemed almost otherworldly. One could sing so beautifully it felt like time stopped. Another could cook meals that made you believe in magic. One had a way of speaking that could soothe even the most restless soul, while another's mere presence could inspire you to strive for greatness.

And they were kind—unfailingly kind, in ways that made the world seem like a better place. They were patient with me when I made mistakes, supportive when I needed guidance, and encouraging when I doubted myself. 

They were everything anyone could ever want or need. It wasn't just one or two of them—it was all seven. Each of them shined so brightly in their own way that the idea of comparing them to anyone else felt absurd. No other woman could even come close.

It wasn't like I wanted this to happen, but the heart has a strange way of defying reason. And the more I tried to suppress it, the stronger it became. I started noticing the way they laughed, the way they moved, the small gestures they made without even realising it. 

I felt torn, caught between my love for them as mothers and this growing attraction I couldn't ignore.

I was ashamed, confused, and utterly lost. These were the women who had raised me, who had fed me, clothed me, and loved me unconditionally. 

How could I possibly feel this way about them? 

And yet, the knowledge that they weren't my biological mothers only made it harder to draw the line. They had become something more in my eyes, something I couldn't quite put into words.

That's why, from a certain age, I started acting out. 

It wasn't because I stopped loving them—far from it. It was because I loved them too much, in ways I knew I shouldn't. I couldn't risk letting them see that side of me, couldn't let myself act on feelings that would ruin everything. So, I did the only thing I thought I could do: I pushed them away.

At first, it was small things. I stopped listening to what they said, ignoring their advice and doing the opposite just to create some distance. Then, I started shirking my responsibilities—refusing to do my chores, skipping out on family dinners, and leaving my homework undone. 

It was all so unlike me, the boy who used to cling to them, eager for their praise and affection. Naturally, they were confused. They'd ask if something was wrong, but I couldn't tell them the truth...How could I? 

So, I shrugged it off or snapped at them, hoping they'd stop asking.

But the distance wasn't enough. 

Every time I saw them, every time I was in their presence, those feelings came rushing back. I knew that if I stayed, I'd eventually break, and our relationship would change forever. I couldn't let that happen...So, I escalated. 

I started skipping classes, disappearing for hours without telling anyone where I was. I spent more and more time away from home, avoiding their worried calls and their attempts to reach out to me.

Finally, I made the hardest decision of my life: I moved out. 

I told them I needed my independence, that I wanted to figure things out on my own. It was a half-truth, a lie wrapped in just enough sincerity to make it believable...But the real reason? 

I couldn't be near them anymore. I couldn't risk slipping up, letting them see the feelings I was trying so desperately to hide.

Even then, they didn't give up on me. They'd try to visit, to bring me food or check on me, but I wouldn't let them come without warning. I'd make excuses, say I was busy, or simply wouldn't answer the door. 

It broke me to see the hurt in their eyes, the confusion as they tried to understand why the son who had once adored them now seemed so distant and cold.

And to this day, they still don't understand why I changed. They don't know the real reason I pulled away. And honestly, I hope they never do. Because no matter how much it hurts, staying away from them is the only way I know to protect the love we've shared all these years—the love of a son for his mothers, untainted by the feelings I can never act on.

But who would've thought that everything I had worked so hard to avoid—everything I had sacrificed to maintain my distance, would come crashing down the moment she appeared?

My true mother...The one who I actually shares blood with unlike the rest of my mothers.

[Important Note: There are no blood related relationships in this novel and only involve step mothers.]