Why Do You Hate Me, Daddy?

SUMMARY: This is a complete work of fiction. This story is told from the teenage daughter's POV as she is forced to spend the summer with her dad when she comes home from her first year of college. She has been troubled by the fact that her father has clearly despised her for a very long time and she never understood why. She also harbors a secret that she has never revealed to anyone, and it haunts her.

WARNING: This is a long one. A very long one. It's over 75000 words. (To put that in perspective, that's about the equivalent of a 250-page soft cover book.) Please also note that this story was written as a verrrry slow burn. It was not meant to be a "porno". At its heart, it's a love story. Despite its long length, I did break it down into chapters, in case you want to just read parts of it at a time. There are 41 chapters in total. I do hope you enjoy!

My final note is to ask that you please excuse any editing mistakes, including silly typos! I self-edit my stories, and I don't always catch everything. And with this story being as long as it is, I plan to only re-read it one time while I edit. So there's a good chance you'll come across multiple mistakes. But hopefully the story is enjoyable despite that! I once posted a story where I made the silly mistake of misspelling the word "tale" by writing "tail" instead. I got a host of reader criticisms about that which honestly broke my heart that anyone would decide that my story was "trash" because of one silly missed edit like that!! Anyway, please enjoy and happy reading!

All characters in this story are 18 or older.

DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction. Any character resemblances to real life personae are strictly coincidental. Copying, re-posting, storing (whether digitally or in print form) or redistribution of this material is prohibited.

STORY:

[Ch 01. Descent.]

A rumbling jostle pulled me out of my dream and my eyes snapped open. Someone was leaning against me, mashing me against the wall to my right. A quick glance over reminded me that I was sitting in an airplane, flying over the clouds on my way home. My assailant was an overweight gentleman sitting in the middle seat. He seemed to be occupying his own seat and half of the two seats on either side of him. I tried not to let myself get frustrated. It was probably frustrating for him, too. These airlines seriously needed to do something about accommodating people of all shapes and sizes.

Glancing out the window, I could just make out the drifting masses of cloud as the plane flew over them. It was starting to get dim outside, which told me I was almost home. My flight landed just after sunset. And with that realization my stomach started to fill with dread. This was my first trip home since I went away to college last year. My dad was going to pick me up from the airport, which I was not happy about. I mean, it made sense that he would pick me up, of course. Trying to get one of my friends to pick me up instead had proven futile. They were all busy, apparently. So, at the last minute, I had resigned myself to asking my father for his help. He grudgingly agreed, which I knew he would. That didn't make me like it, though.

You see, my father hates me. And I never understood why.

Alright, a little about myself. For starters, my name is Gracie and I'm nineteen years old. I've always been extremely short, being one of--if not the--shortest girls in my class all throughout high school. My body oddly continued growing right up until my senior year, when I finally achieved the monumental victory of reaching five feet. Well, just shy of it, but who's counting? I was proud of that accomplishment.

Last year, I dyed my brown hair blonde. My eyebrows are still dark brown, but I like the contrast. It's also very trendy these days. It's thick on my head, so I keep it long, hanging just below my shoulder blades. My hair has a slight, natural wave to it, and I've always liked how it frames my face. I've often been described as pretty, but I have a much different opinion of myself. "Cute" is probably about as far as I'd go to describe myself. My eyes are a bluish green (mostly blue) and are actually my favorite part about myself. I used to take a lot of close-up selfies of my eyes and post them on Instagram when I was in high school. My face used to be a lot rounder but changed during the past two years. Now my cheekbones are high and my face angles down toward my chin, giving me what I've heard referred to as a "heart-shaped" face. Probably the only other noteworthy feature of my face is my lips. And they are noteworthy on account of I hate them. They're too thin and curvy. I wish they were a little fuller like some of the girls at my school. One of my friends told me I should just get a "lip job". But, no. I'll keep my body exactly as it is, thank you very much.

As for the rest of me, I'm pretty skinny. While I won't divulge my actual weight, suffice it to say I have a slim build. And believe me, it takes work to keep it that way. But I like how it makes me feel to stay fit and watch what I eat. Not that I don't occasionally self-indulge with a gallon of ice cream, but that's rare. Lastly, I supposed I'll comment on my boobs. If only because they are semi-pertinent later on in the story. Embarrassingly, I wear a 32A size bra. Well, I am borderline a B-cup, but I like the snugness that an A-cup bra gives me. That is when I bother to even wear a bra at all. It was much more common for me to wear a bra when I was twelve than it had been the past two years. In contrast to liking how the snug 32A felt when I wrapped it around my bosom, the freedom of not having a bra at all was even more appealing.

The captain announced that we were heading into our final descent. Glancing once more to the gentleman I was wedged against to my left, I was thankful that I didn't have to pee. It would take me ten minutes to get out of my seat as is. Staring out the window again, I watched the world slowly dim into nighttime while my mind tossed memories and thoughts around like a washing machine. Most of them centered on my father, much to my dismay. For nearly a year, I had managed not to think much of him, having thoroughly invested myself into my first year at college. But now that I was minutes away from encountering him again, I couldn't help it.

Being the oldest of three sisters, I probably knew him better than the other two. Briefly, I thought of my sisters. I was excited to see them, even if the reunion would be debased by the tumultuous relationship I had with my father. Sighing toward the window, the glass momentarily hazed over with condensation from my breath. I reached up and drew a six-pointed star made out of three infinity symbols. It was a symbol my sisters and I had come up with years ago to show our unity. Smiling at the symbol as it slowly faded, my thoughts returned to them.

Monica was a fifteen-year-old brunette with the attitude of a redhead. She wasn't exactly a brat. She was just... intense. About everything. I had to give her credit, though. When she got interested in something, she put her all into it. That was how she had learned to play piano when she was eight. I had tried, but just didn't have the knack. And then there was Ally. Innocent, eleven-year-old Ally. She was the little jewel of the family. If the word "innocence" had a picture in the dictionary, it would show her. I used to envy her for her ability to have a flat, firm belly without a lick of effort. She was, however, an oddity as she was the only one of the three of us with strawberry blonde hair. Nobody was sure where she got it from, but my mom had guessed it came from someone on her side of the family. She was daddy's little girl, that was for sure.

And that was part of my problem. Because, originally, I had been daddy's little girl. After mom died, my dad had been such an integral part of my life. I owed most of who I was to him, in my opinion. And way back then, things had been different. He had been warm toward me. We did everything together. Of course, those few years after my mom passed, it was just my dad and my two little sisters. Despite being seven when we lost her, I tried to step in and fulfill the role of "mom" where I could. Looking back, I doubt I did a very good job. But I had meant well. I took over taking care of Ally. It was usually me who changed her diapers, gave her baths, got her to bed. Monica, fortunately, outgrew the need for diapers by the time she was three, so there wasn't much need for my assistance there.

Those next few years as I approached my teens, I thought my dad and I were tight. I can remember many nights where he would help me put my sisters down for bed and then let me stay up for hours with him, watching movies on tv. He always made me laugh at the stupidest things. And I had a way of getting him to laugh, too. I loved him so much, and I was certain he loved me back. There were even times when I would wake in the middle of the night feeling scared and alone, and I would go crawl in bed next to my dad. He never protested. And when I would turn my back toward him and snuggle back against him, he always wrapped an arm around me, which made me feel safe and warm. Of course, all of that was before he started to detest me.

It started, apparently, the moment I turned thirteen. Something about our relationship changed. It felt sudden to me although, in hindsight, I think it had been building slowly for a year prior to that. By the time I was fourteen, I could hardly call myself "daddy's girl" anymore. He barely gave me the time of day and seemed to have turned his fatherly services exclusively toward my younger sisters.

I grew very introverted about it at the time. I wanted to understand what I had done wrong. It must have been something. A part of me started to wonder if it was because I looked too much like my mom. Maybe as my body matured, so had my facial features. True, I resembled my mom more than either of my sisters. Both of them were taller than me, for starters, whereas my mom had been my same height according to my dad when I asked him once. Maybe that was it, though. That I was like a constant reminder to my dad about what he had lost. In any case, I spent the better part of my teenage years trying to figure it out. Trying to figure out how to win daddy's affection back. But try as I may, I was unsuccessful.

And so, when the opportunity presented itself that I could go far away to college on a scholarship, I jumped at it. Anything to get myself out of that house where I wasn't wanted and clearly didn't belong.

The plane jolted me out of my thoughts as the wheels touched down on the runway. A quick glance out the window showed me the ground leveling out as the plane tipped forward. I hadn't even realized we were so close to landing, as engrossed as I was in my thoughts. The lights alongside the runway whizzed by in a blur as the plane slowed down. I sighed, closing my eyes. This was going to be a dreadful summer, I could already tell.

[Ch 02. Arrival.]

Twenty minutes later, I stood at the curb in the arrivals area outside the airport. I had texted my dad that I was there, and he answered that he was a few minutes out. It was oddly disappointing that he wasn't there on time. He knew when my flight got in and it wasn't like it was early. If anything, we had landed a few minutes late. By the time I saw his black Audi pulling into the pickup area, I was feeling nervously frustrated.

My dad stopped a little ways back and I had to walk to his car, dragging my suitcase behind me. It wasn't too heavy, but I thought he might have at least gotten out to help me with it. Then again, why was I surprised at all, considering how he felt about me? It was just one more discouragement to my ephemeral happiness I had experienced while away at college. The trunk made a noise and lifted slightly. Yanking it the rest of the way open, I threw my suitcase into it, harder than I meant. It slammed against the inside of his trunk. I couldn't even care whether it scratched his precious car.

As I walked around the side of the car, I briefly considered hopping in the back and just treating him like an Uber driver. You didn't have to talk to Uber drivers. With a sigh, I opened the passenger door and slid into the leather seat. Without looking at him, I said, "Hey."

"Hey," he answered back. That was all he said as he pulled out into traffic and started driving us home.

We drove in silence, which I expected. I spent a lot of time staring out of my window. It was oddly stuffy in his car, reminding me of how it was sitting next to the overweight dude on the plane. It was like my dad's loathing of me was pressing into me, shoving my face against the glass.

As I watched the traffic lights slowly pass us by, my mind started reminiscing back to earlier days of my life again. Days when things had been better. Before I became a teenager and my daddy still liked me. I remember how close we used to be. Those nights spent snuggling on the couch were once cherished memories of mine. I would look forward to them eagerly, almost every day.

A buried memory surfaced as we drove. I tried to push it away, but it was persistent. Turning my head, I looked over at my dad, staring at his profile. His hair was dark brown, peppered with gray. His gray was spread so evenly, it almost looked intentional. Admittedly, it looked good on him. His face had a thin layer of hair that was trimmed perfectly. I liked his beard. Oddly, the gray had not touched the hair on his face. The passing lights on the side of the road kept lighting up his head, creating a glowing nimbus around him. For a minute, I was mesmerized by it.

His eyes flicked toward me and I yanked my head away, looking back out of my window. My cheeks started heating up and I hoped to god he couldn't see that from his vantage. My thoughts returned to that buried memory that I had tried so desperately to erase. It was very possibly the most sacred, well kept secret in my entire life. Something I had never revealed to anyone else, not even my closest, bestest friends. Hell, I hadn't even written about it in my diary I used to keep during my early teenage years.

When I was ten, I had developed a secret crush on my father. A crush that had never fully diminished, despite his ever-present abhorrence of me. His coldness toward me made my secret even worse. Like a slap in the face. Rejection without having confessed my love for him. Stuck permanently in the "friend zone", except... except...

We weren't even friends.

I felt like crying suddenly, but I managed to stifle it, sniffling a little. He didn't say anything or ask if I was ok, so I assumed he either didn't notice or didn't care.

When we finally got home, I immediately opened my door and hopped out before my dad had even put the car in park. Over my shoulder, I said quietly, "I'm sorry I inconvenienced you to have to come pick me up."

He grunted and said, "It's ok."

Staring at him, I started to fume. Wouldn't the polite thing to say have been "It's no trouble"? My eyes narrowed and I growled, "Clearly it's not."

My dad sighed, looking frustrated. Then he said quietly, "Let's not argue, ok?"

Holding his gaze for a count of ten, I felt anger rising in me. Why did he detest me so? What had I ever done to deserve it? And, buried beneath all of that was that fluttering emotion of despair that contained my anguished knowledge of the fact that he would never feel for me the way I felt for him.

"Fine," I said, turning away as I fought back the tears that threatened to overwhelm me.

To my surprise, I heard the trunk open a few seconds later and then the unmistakable sound of my suitcase being pulled out. When I looked toward him with my eyes wide in shock, he was already heading into the house. I grabbed the handle on my luggage and towed it along behind him. As soon as I got inside, I immediately headed down to the basement where my bedroom was. I was in no condition to confront my sisters just yet, being on the verge of crying as I was. Once I made it to my bedroom, I closed the door and locked it.

This was definitely going to be a miserable summer.

[Ch 03. Restless.]

Perhaps my one saving grace for my summer of hell was my bedroom. It was actually pretty cool. Our house had always had a pseudo-apartment downstairs, but nobody used it until I turned twelve. By that time, my sisters were old enough that my dad decided to let them each have their own bedrooms instead of sharing. Monica was eight at the time, and little Ally was four. My dad bought a bed for me and we moved my stuff down there. In hindsight, that was probably the first time I had started to feel the distance set in between me and my dad. I was no longer even on the same floor as anyone else.

Admittedly, I was excited to move down there at the time. I loved the layout. Right at the bottom of the stairs was a semi-large room with a big couch that had these cushions that you would just sink right into. There was a super old tv down there, but I rarely used it. I did almost everything on my phone, including watching movies. Past that was a tiny bathroom that just had a toilet and a sink, no bath. I had to use the main bathroom upstairs to shower. Then there was my bedroom. It was small, with only one tiny little window that barely opened. The nice thing was, it was one of the warmest rooms in the house during the winter. Unfortunately, it was also one of the warmest rooms in the summer. Because of that, I typically slept naked no matter what time of year. The room did have a small closet where I somehow managed to stuff most of my clothes.

After unpacking my clothes, I shoved the empty suitcase to the back of the closet and then ventured out of my room to use the bathroom before getting into bed. I felt a little bad for not going up to say hi to my sisters, but I figured they wouldn't be too upset as long as I gave them lots of hugs and kisses in the morning. I just wasn't in the mood. My dad had totally killed my mood with her standoffishness. And it had been pretty poor to begin with.

Stripping out of my clothes, I crawled into bed, hoping to fall asleep fast. But as I lay there for the next half hour, sleep seemed to elude me. I wasn't used to that. During school, I was so busy all the time that when I got in bed, I was practically asleep before my head hit the pillow each night. And of course, that had given me a nice little barrier in my own mind against letting thoughts from my past creep into the present. But with my return home, and especially seeing my dad again, it was like all the defenses I had erected over the past year had shattered in a single evening.

An unbidden memory started to invade my thoughts. Tossing in my bed to try to steer my mind away from it, I couldn't shake it. The memory took place a long time ago, when I was young. It was before everything had changed between my father and me. Unable to resist it, the vision danced through my head as I lay still, trying to find peace for the night. My dad was the main subject, of course. It was the fated day when I had accidentally caught a glimpse of my father in the shower. Naked.

Up until last year, I had completely forgotten the memory, despite having carried it with me through most of my early teenage years. But the end of last year was when I lost my virginity to a college boy one night at a frat party. That cursed memory had resurfaced that night. What was frustrating was that it had taken me two months after having sex to rid myself of it, and now it was wedged in my brain again. Seeing my father today had brought it all back, along with a host of other emotions I felt myself battling with.

My mind continued to race, and I growled in frustration. I was frustrated with my dad, but mainly at myself. What had I done wrong all those years ago? It was a point of insanity for me, whenever I tried to figure it out. Trying to figure it out was like desperately wanting to rush into a burning building to rescue a loved one but knowing I could never reach them. I knew the answer must be obtainable, but it eluded me.