Mother passed away shortly after I turned 9. It was summer and the days were long but there never seemed to be enough hours of daylight. Once the moon had come out, I would lay in bed listening. Everytime I heard daddy outside the door I’d hold my breath, praying to God that he would pass over. Most of the time he did. But once or twice a week he didn’t.
The door would creak open and then closed. He would take a few heavy, druken steps toward my bed and sit on the edge.
“I love you,” he’d say and rub my back. “You look so much like your mother, beautiful girl.”
“I love you, daddy,” I’d say.
“Are you ready for my gift? My secret gift for you?”
At the time I just wanted to make daddy happy. I loved him and he loved me. This was what love was.
We’d normally start with oral. He’d tell me how good I made him feel. And sometimes we’d have intercourse, always protected.
After it was over, he’d kiss me on my forehead, the scent of alcohol overpowering.
“It’s our secret, right baby girl?”