Ending the Argument

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is fiction. They are not real people. I had a tough time deciding what category to post this in, but settled on this one.

When the door slammed upstairs, Bob reached for the remote and turned up the volume a little. He'd heard it enough times to know that the shouting was only going to escalate from here; it always infuriated Joanne when Tiffany, her daughter, slammed the door on her. Of course, Tiffany knew that too, so she'd always slam it when Joanne was beginning to get angry, and send her over the edge. He swore they must love fighting, they did it so much. They'd been at it for over an hour already. He knew he was in for a long one.

At age forty he was tired of the fighting, all he wanted after a hard week's work was to come home and relax a little, was that so much to ask? Not for the first time he wondered if it had been a mistake to marry Joanne. It had been great when they were dating, and he'd fallen in love, and at first the marriage had been wonderful. Sure, ups and downs, but that was expected, and they worked through it. Even now, when she wasn't fighting with Tiffany she really was a wonderful person, and a great, loving wife. Sure the sex had dropped off considerably; truth be told it was pretty infrequent these days, Still, he admonished himself for thinking it was a mistake. He liked being married, liked coming home to a family after coming home to an empty house all those years.

He'd married late; met Joanne when he was thirty-four and she was thirty, and Tiffany was only fourteen. They married a year later, and moved into his house, big enough for a family, but it had been only him for so long. He'd bought it when he was only twenty-four, working his way into his own contracting business. His business was good, the house was paid off. And though he'd had several girlfriends in his twenties, and more than several relationships, he'd been too busy working to apply himself, and so had remained alone. With his business established in his thirties, and all his friends married and starting families, he started looking, and dated a few times before meeting Joanne.

She's been divorced from her second husband for two years when they met, but it was her independent spirit and toughness that drew him to her. She'd gotten pregnant at seventeen, married Tiffany's dad, but that had fallen apart within a year, and he split. She raised her alone for a few years, met another guy and married him, but that lasted only five years until he left for another woman.

Maybe his mistake had not been getting married, he thought, absentmindedly watching the television, but marrying a woman who had two failed marriages already. Again he scolded himself; how could he think the woman he loved was a mistake? Ashamed of his thought, he told himself that the divorces weren't a problem, that there was nothing wrong with their marriage. It was just a rough patch.

Sure, the voice in his head told him. A rough patch that started four years ago and has only gotten worse. And shows no signs of getting better. And you know it. He sighed. The arguments had begun when Tiffany was sixteen. He'd never known her as a little girl, had met her as a teen, and watched her grow into a beautiful young woman. He tried to treat her with respect, but not as a pushover, and she seemed to respond well. They had a good relationship for a girl who grew up without a dad and a guy who had been alone for a long time. They seemed to understand each other, and they made the best of the situation, trying not to step on each other, but not avoiding either. He loved his stepdaughter, and she had, he thought, grown into a fine young woman.

Joanne didn't share his rosy view. She'd begun criticizing Tiffany early in their marriage, for her hair style, her music, her clothes, her friends. Only a little at first, but not gently, and in front of Bob, which made him uncomfortable, and frankly, he disagreed with her critiques. He thought she dressed and acted the way girls her age dressed and acted, that's all. To his mind, it wasn't what Tiff was doing; it was Jo's opinion of it that created the disagreements. And the disagreements began to become more frequent.

Tiff had pushed back, as you would expect a teenager to do. By the time she was seventeen she was resisting, yelling back, and trading insults with her mother. At the time Bob had admired how much they looked alike, both petite, full lips, small nose, big round blue eyes. But when they argued they even acted the same; defensive, lashing out in anger, saying things you could never take back, flailing hands, storming around the house and screaming. The first few major blowouts had really caught him off guard. Arguing was one thing, but full-force gale warning uncontrolled explosions were scary. But then they became more frequent, and sadly, he got used to it. It was their relationship: Joanne hated everything her daughter thought, said, and did, and Tiffany resented her mother's criticism and attempts to control her.

And so they fought. Repeatedly. Endlessly. Some fights were short but white-hot, nearly coming to blows, and he'd had to step in. Others would simmer for days and then boil over suddenly, maintaining a heated exchange sometimes for twenty-four hours.

Over time Bob learned a couple of things. First he learned that Joanne would always try to get him to agree with her, to endorse her opinion, even though he rarely did. He would try to agree with her motivations, at least as she stated them, but he didn't agree with her opinions and confrontational attacks. Second, he learned that afterwards, Tiffany would seek him out, and solicit his understanding and opinion. She knew she was rebellious, and she expressed her dismay at fighting with her mother, but she couldn't help herself when Jo started in on her, and she'd lose control. And third, he had learned that there were times that he had to step in, and separate them. Sometimes, after the door slamming, things would get completely out of control, names were called, things were thrown, and he had to break them up, diffuse the hostilities and become the peacemaker, however short-lived the peace might be.

Listening to the raised voices upstairs, he suspected that this would be one of those times. Tiffany had it coming this time. He and Joanne had gone out for the night last night, and Jo had warned her not to have people at the house, and of course an argument had ensued. Tiffany had defiantly said she would do what she wanted, she was twenty years old, and Jo couldn't control her. Bob had no idea if Tiff had planned to have people over or if she did it simply because Jo told her not to. But when they got home there were drunken party remnants all over, spilled beer, empty cups, just a general mess, and Tiffany was passed out in her room with two other girls. Bob had sent Jo to bed steaming, and woke Tiffany's friends and drove them home. They were pretty drunk, and pretty hot, and he thought they were kind of flirting with him. When he got home Jo was asleep. He looked in on his stepdaughter before going to bed.

She was wearing a t-shirt and tight little shorts, and she looked peaceful, and pretty, and, like her friends, he thought, pretty hot. Hell, he thought, she was twenty; she was supposed to be hot. He watched her sleep, saw her chest rising and falling, her young breasts stretching the shirt, her nipples hinting beneath the fabric. The shorts were pulled up into her crotch, and he felt a little stirring as his eyes traced the outline of her pussy. Not for the first time he admired her sexiness, then caught himself, and left the room, scolding himself silently for thinking of his stepdaughter that way.

This morning he awakened before Joanne, slipped on a pair of sweatpants over his boxers, and headed to the kitchen. Tiffany was there already, pouring a cup of coffee. She was in a towel, fresh from the shower, and her wet hair hung in straggles, giving her a sexy, not so innocent look. She started as he came in.

"Oh, Bob, sorry, I didn't know you were awake," she said, apologizing for the towel. They had strict rules about dressing in the house.

"It's okay," he mumbled, remembering her breasts and crotch last night, wondering what she looked like under the towel, then chasing the thought away.

"Coffee?"

"Please, yes," he answered, and sat at the table. She took a mug from the cabinet, her back to him, and he watched as the towel crept almost to the bottom of her ass, exposing her thighs. He inhaled suddenly and hoped she didn't notice. She had great legs, even though she was only two inches taller than her mother, at 5'2", and though he'd seen them before, in bathing suits and such, seeing them like this, accidentally exposed in her towel, naked and clean from her shower, was stimulating. She brought the coffee to the table, and sat across from him, one hand holding her towel closed at her chest. They sipped silently, and then she spoke.

"I'm sorry, Bob."

"You should be, but thanks for apologizing."

"Really, I am," she explained, "I swear I didn't mean to wreck the place." She looked at him, and he saw something in her eyes. Fear, maybe. Did she think he was angry? "I'll clean it up, as soon as I get dressed."

"You know that's not the issue," he told her. "The issue is you disobeyed your mother, and she's furious." He sipped, and looked at her. She knew there was a fight coming. "I'm not angry," he told her. "But I'm really disappointed. It's not that you had people over, but that you didn't even make an effort to hide it." He put his mug down, and reached for her free hand with both of his, held it as a friend, a counselor. "It's like you are throwing it in her face, and asking for the fight."

"I know, I really fucked up."

"But honey, you do it all the time."

"I know, I know," she said, and he thought she might cry. She was really remorseful. "It's like she dares me, and I just can't stop myself from myself from defying her." This was a conversation they'd had many times in the past. "I don't know why."

"Because you're a lot like her," he told her.

"You know I hate when you say that."

"I say it because it's true," he said, patting her hand, and then releasing it. "Not the defiance, that's all you. But the fighting, the not-backing-down, the standing up for yourself and being strong and independent. That's from your Mom." He paused. "You know, I try not to get between you two and your relationship. I know I'm late to the game, but I've always tried to treat you fairly, as an adult, with respect." She put her head down, nodded. Her hands fell to her lap, and he noticed her cleavage at the knot of her towel. "I know you struggle with her controlling you, trying to control you, anyway. And I know that inside, you hate the fighting, you've told me that in the past. It upsets you, it upsets your Mom." He took a breath as he saw her begin to cry, and he sighed. "But honey, do you stop to think about me? I try to consider your feelings, all the time. Do you know how much your fighting bothers me? Do you understand how upset it makes me, how much tension there is in the house, what today is going to be like?" He saw tears dribbling down her face, and her shoulders shook a little as she sniffled.

"I'm sorry, I swear," she managed.

"I know you are, Tiff," he said, sitting back in his chair, watching the towel loosen from her deep breaths, hoping it wouldn't fall open, and hoping a little that it might. "You're sorry now, like every other time, but not sorry enough to prevent the fight that you know is going to start." He watched her tighten her towel, and wipe her face with the heel of her hand. She sniffled again, holding the towel. "You don't consider my feelings or my needs when you make these decisions." He sipped his coffee. "That's what disappoints me. Not that you did something your mother told you not to do; I get that. But if you cared about me like I care for you, you would have at least cleaned up, hid the evidence, and not thrown it in your Mom's face, and force me to sit through another day-long, knock-down, drag-out brawl."

She looked at him then, and he saw real concern in her face. "That's what I'm sorry about," she confessed quietly. "I- I never meant to hurt you, you treat me so good, you're always concerned for me, for my feelings, and I- I just- just piss on you, and oh, fuck, I'm so sorry!" She began crying again, and he felt her pain, her remorse, as the tears bean again. Her breathing became shaky and her gaze dropped to her lap. He waited for her to finish, and spoke when her free hand wiped her tears, and she looked up. "I'm really sorry, I swear."

"I'm not sure that sorry is going to cover it this time, Tiff," he told her. "There will be a rip-roaring battle today, that I will probably have to get in the middle of, but you're going to need to be punished, too. Grounded, probably."

She nodded her head. "Yeah," she admitted, "I know. I have that coming."

"Listen," he told her, "go get dressed, and start cleaning up this mess, fast. I'll try to keep your Mom in our room as long as I can. Maybe it'll help if the place isn't a shithouse when she comes out." He stood, kissed her on the top of her head, and headed back to the bedroom to check on his sleeping wife. As he exited the kitchen, he heard her say, "Thanks, Dad," softly. She rarely called him that, having had two already, but there were instances, like these, that she related to him as she would a Dad, and not her Mom's husband. He smiled as he made his way back to try and offset the fight.

Of course, it hadn't worked, and the ensuing battle was a whopper, one for the books. Tiffany spent all day cleaning, with her mother haranguing and badgering he every step of the way. Tiffany had been dutifully sorry and silent for most of the day, doing her best to take her medicine and not fight back. But around mid-afternoon with the house cleaned Joanne, apparently frustrated that she wasn't getting a reaction, had begun the personal attacks that always got a rise from her daughter. And then it started in earnest, and had been going on now for several hours. His nerves were on edge, and as much as he didn't want to insert himself, he knew there was no avoiding it. He turned up the television again in an effort to delay the inevitable.

Footsteps above him tracked the fight from room to room, from the kitchen, to Tiffany's room, to the bathroom, where the door slammed. Here it comes, he thought, and sure enough, the pounding on the locked door began, and he heard Joanne begin the name-calling.

"Unlock that goddamn door, Tiffany!" he heard his wife shriek. "You fucking bitch! Get this fucking door open, or I swear I'll break it down!" She pounded again. Bob sighed heavily, and turned off the set. He sat with his hands on his knees, reluctant to get involved, but knowing that this was one of those times. He screwed up his courage and made his way upstairs.

He followed his wife's tirade to the scene in the hallway. "You fucking defiant bitch, you think you can do whatever you want? You really crossed the line this time!" As he turned the corner he saw her there, banging her fists on the door, jiggling the handle, her tiny five-nothing frame tensed for battle. It was going to get ugly. Uglier, he corrected himself. "I tell you no friends, and you have a wild drunken party? You let your friends wreck my fucking house?"

"I cleaned it up, bitch!" he heard Tiff respond. "What do you want from me?"

"God Dammit, open this goddamn door, you no good bitch!"

Bob inserted himself between wife and the bathroom door. He heard Tiff muttering angrily, as she did when she was able get separation from her raving mother.

"Jo-"

"Oh, no, no you don't Bob, she's fucking got it coming this time." She craned her head around Bob's wide shoulders. "You hear me, Tiff? You fucking got it coming this time! You really went too fucking far!"

Bob couldn't understand Tiffany's response through and over his wife's screaming rant as he took her by the shoulders and began steering her away. She wriggled from his grasp.

"Don't you fucking take her side! What's wrong with you?"

"Hey!" he barked, and she quieted. "I am not taking sides," he said, his voice lower, but firm. "I'm trying to help, to help you both, and to help me." He put his hands on her shoulders, feeling her tremble with pent up rage, and looked down into her face. Her determined expression froze him. "Please, Jo, honey," he said to her, quietly. "Let me try to get her out so we can talk this through."

"Talk!? You want us to fucking talk? Everything I tell her," she snapped, flailing her hands, "she does the opposite! She's out of control, and I want her out of here, out of my life!" Bob heard a shocked sob behind the door. "Yeah, you fucking heard that, didn't you! That's right, I said out, get the fuck out!" Bob managed to turn her body, gently, and began moving her slowly, steering her to their bedroom. "You want it your way, fine, bitch, but not here, not in my house!"

"I'm twenty years old!" Bob heard her sob behind the door. He had Joanne turned away from the door, almost to the bedroom, but she heard it, too. "Why do you treat me like I'm twelve?"

Joanne whirled from his grasp, and turned to shout down the hallway. "Because you're a no-good irresponsible bitch, and I've fucking had it with your bullshit!"

"That's enough, Jo," he said, taking her upper arms firmly, and pulling her into the bedroom, and closing the door behind him. She struggled in his grasp, but her hundred and ten pounds were no match for him. He held her until she stopped trying to escape, and then released her. She rubbed her arm.

"What's the matter, Bob," she sneered, turning her anger on him. "Can't handle the tough love? You want to coddle her, like you always do? Are you gonna take her side, and turn against me?" She turned away, then spun back to snarl in his face. "You know, if you maybe took my side once in a while, maybe back me up a little, maybe it wouldn't come to this!"

"Calm down, Jo."

"Fuck calm down! I'm not calming down until that trouble bitch is out of my life! I spent my whole life trying to raise her, keep her out of trouble, give her a good life, with a good home! I didn't always succeed, but I fucking tried my hardest! And this! This is my reward." She faced the direction of the bathroom and yelled at the wall. "An irresponsible piece of shit who spends every waking moment trying to torment me and ruin my life!" She turned to Bob again, ferocious. "I've had it, Bob, I want her out, I've fucking had it!"

Bob waited until she was done. Then waited to see if was going to start again. She stood there, turned to the side, seething.

"Can I tell you something?"

"What," she spat.

"Honey, I'm not going to minimize the situation, I know it's serious, but she's you're daughter, your only daughter. She loves you, and I know that you love her. If you throw her out, you run the risk of never seeing her again, and I know that's not what you want." He watched her closely, saw her shoulders slump ever so slightly.

"Hmph," she snorted. "Where did love get me, Bob, huh? Can you tell me that?" Her voice began to climb as she continued. "Can you tell me that, Bob? Where did all my love for her get me? To this? This – this no-good delinquent who refuses to do anything I say?" She crossed her arms in front of her. Even angry she was pretty, then stowed the thought. "I'm not giving in Bob, so if you want to help her, get her out of there and help her pack."

This was going to be a tough one. He talked to her more, soothing words, spoken softly, trying to allow time and distance to let the hostility slip away, and it worked to a degree; she stopped screaming at him and the wall. But she remained steadfast, and firm.