Taking Care of My Daddy

I can still remember the sad, concerned faces of the visitors in the weeks after my mother died. They brought casseroles, home-made soups and words of sympathy for my father and me, the motherless little ten-year-old girl. There were so many of them; we were hardly left alone for weeks. Some were relatives, but lots of them must have been friends of my mother. I never saw most of them again. They'd try to console daddy that at least mom's suffering was over, or try to console me that I'd see her in again heaven. Then they'd remark to us both, as if it was a comfort, how much I looked like her. When, one after another, they finally got bored and left us alone, I was relieved. I hated their fuss, their casseroles and their pity. It was so much more comfortable, more familiar, and in a strange way more like Mom was still with us when my dad and I were left in our little house on our own.

My father did a great job taking care of me after my mother was gone. He comforted me when I cried, helped me with my homework, fed me and provided for me in every way while working at his nine-to-five job. Having a daughter to care for must have been challenging for him in many ways. I remember how embarrassed it made him whenever it came time to speak to me about sex or my body; yet he always struggled through his discomfort and taught me everything I needed to know, and never made me feel guilty when I was curious and wanted to know more.

For years after we lost Mom, I was needy and secretly scared that I might lose my dad too. I suppose I was clingy, and I must have been a burden. I never left him time for friends or for meeting new women, but he never complained. I could see in all his sacrifice and devotion how much he loved me, and I loved him more than anything else in the world.

As I got older and understood how much my dad was doing for me, I started doing my best to help him too. I started doing my share of dish washing and cleaning without any argument, as well as taking on extra tasks around the house, even when I wasn't asked. I did all our laundry and occasionally even cooked something simple when we got tired of the frozen dinners and takeout that had become our usual fare. It wasn't out of a sense duty or responsibility: I was happy just to relieve Dad of some of his load. I knew I could never replace Mom; but with all he did for me, it just felt right to take care of Daddy in every way I could.

My dad has always been shy around strangers, even my friends, and he hates crowds and fusses, so I was surprised when he suggested throwing a big party for me at our house on my eighteenth birthday. "You deserve a special celebration," he told me. "It's your special day."

I loved that he offered, but I did my best to dissuade him anyway. "I don't need a big party," I assured him. "Besides, our house is so small, where would everybody even fit?" But my objection wasn't really because of lack of space. I hated crowds and fusses too, and just the thought of having lots of people over reminded me of the sad time after Mom had died. Besides, I had my own secret idea about what my perfect birthday celebration would be, and there was a very special, private gift I already dreamed of receiving from my dad.

"We'll fit everyone in somehow," my father told me. "There's not anything wrong with being cozy."

"I know that," I replied. "That's why I'd so much rather just have a quiet, cozy time with you."

"That's just what you said when you started high school," he said with a chuckle, "when you didn't want to go to the dance. Remember how I told you, 'I'd love you to stay my little girl forever, but that would be very selfish of me. You need to spend more time with friends your own age and maybe even start going out with boys.' And when you said you weren't interested in any of the boys at school, and would rather just stay home and hang out with me, do you remember what I asked you?"

"You asked, 'You don't want to be stuck with me forever, do you?'" I answered, doing a mock imitation of his voice. For all the years since, that question had remained a running joke between us.

"That's right," my father said. "And then you went to that dance and found out you actually were interested in boys, and you started dating. And that's how it should be. You're way too beautiful a girl to spend all your evenings alone with your father."

I wasn't sure if that was true, but I'd ended up going to that high-school dance, and I'd started dating soon after. It was fun, mostly, and one thing I learned was that I actually did like high-school boys. I liked being taken out by them and being the center of their attention, and I liked all the different ways their male energy expressed itself, whether they were awkward or confident, thoughtful or funny. I liked their big hands, muscles and tight, masculine butts. I even enjoyed that, when it came right down to it, every boy I dated wanted the same basic thing, whether they were shy and bashful about it or bad boys, aggressive with desire. Sometimes, I'd touch them or let them touch me, on sofas when parents weren't watching, behind bleachers, in parked cars; but I never went all the way, and I hardly ever went out with any of them a second time. I knew with every one of them that something was missing, and no matter how well the date went, I was always happiest when I got home, back to my dad.

So, I insisted to my dad that I didn't want a big party, just a quiet, intimate evening with him. I could tell that he was secretly relieved.

More than anything, I cherished the warm and easy times spent alone with my father in our two-bedroom, one-bathroom home. Of course, I went out with my friends from school sometimes, or they'd come over, or I'd go on a date, but it was really those cozy times I spent with my dad that I liked the best. When he'd get home from work, I'd greet him with a kiss at the door, and I always looked forward to the time we spent together at dinner and, afterwards, sitting on the sofa watching TV, me in my nightie so I could be comfy and ready for bed. He never seemed to mind watching what I liked to watch: silly comedies, fantasies, love stories or romcoms. My choices grew spicier as I grew older; sometimes they were even rated R. At times, a love scene would make me really hot, and I'd feel embarrassed and excited all at once, wondering if Dad could see how my face flushed.

Those were the times I liked the best, so on my birthday, Dad ended up ordering pizza, making salad and renting a movie for the two of us, just like I wanted.

I set out tapers and Dad lit them so we could eat my birthday dinner by candlelight. Because it was my special day, Dad opened a bottle of wine and gave me a glass of my own instead of just a sip of his. There was cake too, with eighteen candles for me to blow out as I made my wish. I probably don't have to tell you what my wish was for. More than anything, I wanted to make my daddy happy.

One evening a few weeks before my birthday, after we'd finished dinner, I'd found the courage to ask him why he never went on dates. My question took him aback. "I guess I haven't found a woman who can compare with your mom," he replied.

"Have you even looked?" I asked him.

"You know, between working and being a father, I haven't had much time," he answered.

"Well, maybe you should take the time," I told him. "It's all right with me if you start dating, you know. I think it would be good for you."

"Thank you, darling," he told me, smiling bashfully, "but I'm really quite fine the way things are."

"It must be hard for you sometimes, though," I said, "with just me to keep you company. Don't you ever miss sleeping with Mom?"

That made him really embarrassed. "Sure I do, honey," he answered, looking at me nervously, "but maybe we shouldn't go into that."

I was innocent in many ways then, but I wasn't so naïve that I didn't know my father had physical needs. I'd seen the evidence of it often enough on his sheets and pajamas when I did the laundry. Not that I thought there was anything wrong with wet dreams and masturbation, but my dad deserved more. It must have been lonely and frustrating for him, having to always take care of his needs on his own. I started noticing how sometimes, when he thought I wasn't looking, he had a sad and longing look deep in his eyes. My thoughts about the source of his longing grew surer as I grew older, as I experienced firsthand the feeling of my own growing needs and I learned on my dates just how crazy guys are for the sight of a tit or the touch of a girl's hand. I knew my father couldn't be immune to such natural desires. To put it bluntly, I worried that my dear daddy was secretly unhappily horny because of needing a woman, but instead of looking for one, he was spending all his time at home taking care of me.

I knew he'd never complain about it, but it bothered me to think that I was standing in the way of him finding someone to take care of that primal need, so I wasn't about to let him evade my question. "Why not?" I asked him. "I don't mind if you bring someone home with you one evening. You know, to sleep with. I don't want to stand in your way. Maybe you can find someone in a personal ad or pick someone up in a bar."

"That wouldn't be fair to you," he told me. "Besides, I'm not the kind of guy who picks up women in bars."

"So how did you find girls to date before you met Mom?" I asked him.

"Mostly, I didn't," he told me, self-consciously. "I wasn't very experienced when I met your mom."

"Was she your first?" I blurted out, rather tactlessly.

I was surprised how candidly he answered. "Not just my first. Your mother was my one and only love," he said, sounding both wistful and proud.

I thought that was so romantic and cool. "You could always try a dating service," I suggested, doing my best to keep thinking of things that could help him.

"I don't think so," he protested. "That just seems weird to me. Dating's hard enough when you actually know the other person in real life."

"But wouldn't it be nice to have a woman you could talk to and cuddle up to?"

"But I can do that with you," he declared, "without having to go through all the nonsense of dating."

I loved hearing him say that, but I pressed on. "Well, even if you don't want to date," I told him playfully, "you could still have sex."

Dad looked horrified. "What do mean?" he asked me.

"Well, you could always hire a call girl, you know," I said with a shrug, "if that's what you need."

Dad chuckled. He must have thought I was joking. "Thank you, honey," he told me. "It's good to know you're concerned about my sex life. I just can't imagine any woman as desirable to me as your mother, though, except maybe you." He got up to clear the table, and as he reached for my plate, he gave me a peck on the cheek.

It was my dad's turn to do the dishes, so I went to do my homework in my room. I had more to think about that night, though, than just calculus and Great Expectations. Part of me was secretly relieved that Dad didn't want to have another woman, even though another part of me thought that was very selfish of me. But I wondered what he had meant, exactly, when he'd said, "except maybe you." Was it just a joke, or just an expression of his love for me as his child? Or could he have meant what I secretly hoped he did? It excited me to imagine that; and even though it scared me, I started fantasizing about what might have happened if, instead of suggesting dating and hookers, I'd had the courage to offer myself to Daddy then and there.

That conversation was still in my mind on my birthday, just as those fantasies had been in my thoughts every night in between. When we'd finished eating our slices of my birthday cake, Dad surprised me with a little gift-wrapped box.

"But you already gave me money for presents," I told him. Long ago, my father had given up trying to pick out gifts to please a daughter and had started giving me cash to buy my own.

"This is just a little something extra I want you to have," he told me. I removed the paper carefully and opened the box. Inside was a delicate silver chain necklace with a silver heart.

"It's beautiful," I told him. "Wasn't it Mom's?"

"I gave it to her just after we met," he said. "Now I think it should be yours."

"Thank you, Daddy," I told him as I gave him a big hug. "Will you help me put it on?"

I shivered as my dad drew back my hair and fastened the clasp. "It looks like it was made for you," he said when I turned around for him to see.

After dinner, I went to my room to put my on nightgown, just like I did every evening before we watched TV. My dad and I were casual about things like that in many ways. He was used to seeing me in my nightie, or wrapped in a towel, or even in my underwear, and mornings sometimes he would rush around in just his boxers. I had my own bedroom, but we shared a bathroom, so to make things easier we never closed the door, as long as we weren't showering or using the toilet. We often brushed our teeth together, or I might do my makeup while Daddy shaved. I'd liked watching him shave ever since I was a little girl, and when I started shaving my legs, I think he liked watching me too.

But we'd never seen each other naked, or dressed in anything really sexy, so I was nervous about the new nightie I'd decided I was going to wear. I had to steel my courage just to put it on. It was the sexiest nightgown I'd ever worn, cherry-red, satiny, and short: a tiny wisp of a thing. I'd bought it especially for my birthday. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see its matching little panties and most of my skin through its gossamer fabric. I could even make out the pinkish-brown circles of my nipples, somewhat camouflaged under flowery patterns of lace. I took a deep breath before heading out to the living room. I felt very shy.

"That's new, isn't it?" Dad said as soon as he saw me.

"I bought it with the money you gave me," I told him, trying not to tremble under his gaze. "It's a birthday gift from you, so I thought you should see it. I thought that now that I'm grown-up woman I should have a grown-up negligee. Do you like it?"

"It's rather revealing, don't you think?" he said.

"It's OK, Daddy," I replied as I took my place beside him on the sofa. "There's no one here but us. Isn't it cute?"

I was afraid he was going to make me change, but he just said, "It's more than cute, honey. Are you going to be warm enough?"

"I'll just get cozy under the blanket if I get cold," I said. We always kept a blanket near the sofa, just for that.

Dad had rented the movie I'd asked for, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being." Daniel Day Lewis plays Tomas, a brain surgeon in Prague who screws lots of women. Sabina loves him and doesn't mind that he fucks around; Tereza loves him and does. When the Russians invade with their tanks, all three of them escape to Switzerland, but Tereza can't bear Tomas's sexual freedom and goes back. Tomas really loves her, so he goes back to be with her, and they live together in the repressive Russian regime as it grinds them down.

It lasted three hours. While we were watching, my father and I finished the wine. Part way through, I covered myself with the blanket, and before the movie was over, he joined me underneath it and I snuggled up next to him, resting my head against his shoulder.

"That was so beautiful and so romantic," I said as the credits were rolling. "It's too bad the ending was so sad. If only Tereza had been able to bear freedom, it might have all ended happily."

"You don't think Tomas was selfish for having affairs?" he asked me.

"It's what made him happy," I answered. "People need to be allowed to do that. Tereza was happy too, whenever she stopped being a goodie-goodie and let herself be naughty like him. I do wish Daniel Day Lewis had gotten naked at least once, though. Did you like seeing all the naked girls?"

"What a thing to ask," my dad said, looking a little embarrassed. But then he admitted, "Of course I did."

I giggled. On a sudden impulse, I jumped onto his lap. "We haven't done this in a while, have we?" I asked. "Is it OK?"

"I guess so," he answered, surprised. "Not since you were a little girl. You weren't so heavy then."

"Tsk!" I scolded him teasingly, playfully slapping his shoulder. "That's not a nice way to talk to a girl. We have to work on your skills with women, Daddy. Say something nice."

"You have the most beautiful eyes," he told me. "They remind me of your mom's."

"That's better. Now say something more." He hesitated, so I urged him on. "Do you think I'm as pretty as those girls in the film? Don't you think I look a lot like Juliette Binoche?"

Dad cast his eyes down. At first, I thought he was embarrassed, until I realized he was still looking at me. "I think you're the most beautiful girl in the whole world," he told me.

The blanket had fallen when I'd moved onto my father's lap. My breasts peeked out from behind my nightie's flower-patterned lace, and Mom's silver heart lay resting between them. I shifted myself to sit more firmly on his lap. That's when I noticed he was hard.

"I guess you really do find me attractive" I teased him, wiggling my hips just for fun.

I could feel his body stiffen. "Oh my god! I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. He struggled to stand, his boner still pressing against my bottom as he pushed us both off the sofa with his hands. "That shouldn't have happened. Jesus, sweetie, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's OK, Daddy," I said, trying to calm him. "It was an accident. Nothing's wrong."

"It wasn't an accident. It was wrong of me," said Dad. "I should have stopped it sooner."

"Why stop, Daddy?" I asked. "We're just having fun."

"Maybe you'd better get yourself off to bed," he countered. There was still a bulge in his pants. I tried to kiss him goodnight, but he pulled away.

I was stunned; not by my father's erection, but by his sending me to bed. I drifted in a daze to the bathroom, wondering what I should do. Tears rolled down my face as I watched myself in the mirror brushing my teeth. I left the door open, so I heard it when he turned on the news and when he gave up on watching a few minutes later and turned off the TV. It was his habit at bedtime to brush his teeth first, but that night, I listened from the bathroom as he went straight to his room and closed the door. I rinsed my mouth and spat and went to my room.

I heard him go into the bathroom almost immediately. He was avoiding me! I knew I needed to act straight away to turn things around. I needed to do whatever it took to make us both happy. When he came back out of the bathroom and went to his room, I spent a minute gathering my courage before going into the hall. I knocked on his door, and without waiting for an answer, let myself in.

He was sitting on his bed, wearing his usual sleepwear, a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. "Are you still mad at me, Daddy?" I asked.

"Oh my god, no," he insisted. "You should be mad at me. It's all my fault, honey. That should never have happened."

"But it did happen," I told him, "and I don't mind. Don't be embarrassed, Daddy. It's only natural. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But it's not natural, darling. Not between us. You're my daughter, for Christ's sake."

"It didn't hurt me, Daddy," I said. "It didn't even surprise me really. I love you Daddy, and l'll love it any way you love me back."

He looked at me closely. "Have you been crying," he asked.

"A little," I told him. "Can I stay here with you?"

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," he answered, "after what happened."

I could tell he wanted me to disagree. "Please?" I begged in my sweetest voice. "I really need to be close to you now. I'll do the dishes for you an extra night. Please will you let me stay?"