On my twentiethbirthday, I knew the truth. Why do some people reject their own happiness?įor a long time I had believed my father loved me. Why on earth couldn’t he see that I could never be happy as just his daughter, and that I could never be remotely happy with any other arrangement? We were happy, I made him happy. I couldn’t understand why he would want to reduce our love to something merely biological and normal. There is no pain worse than the pain of death.Īnd then, the man wanted us to be Father and Daughter, just father and daughter. It is too painful to feel the pain of death and yet be alive. He looked like he was hurting, but I should have made sure. I should have killed him too I should have hurt him too. The most painful part of it was that I didn’t die. But end it did, and in so shocking a manner. I didn’t know I could ever stop being what I was to him I had never thought our relationship would end. The normalcy and casualness of his words were a negation. There should be a special kind of voice and words for pronouncements of that nature, something equal and suitably terrible. He had said the break up words so casually, as if he had thought it through and found it a simple matter. I had never asked him, but I sensed that even my mother didn’t take him to the heights I took him.īut his words belied the sorrow on his features. Over the years I had learnt his special recipe. In better times and in our previous world, I would have taken him in my arms as I was wont, and work my magic on him. How could I have ever believed the man loved me? He even looked sad that day, so sorrowful and tired. He only said he was doing it for me, that it was for the best, my best. I couldn’t believe my day could ever become so dark. I couldn’t believe this was my perfect father.
Something, perhaps, must have happened to his hormones. There was nothing I didn’t think, there was no thought I didn’t wish to explain his decision by. He couldn’t explain why we could no longer have what we had. I don’t think I could have shared my father with any one. I would, perhaps, have liked to know her, but somehow I thank God she wasn’t with us. Ever since, I had been my father’s heartbeat. There was no one else either, I knew that much. I was his sole religion, he worshiped me. No, His reason wasn’t religious, not at all, my father wasn’t that sentimental. Our love transcended that of a father and his daughter. It was beautiful we were one, my father and I. I knew it wasn’t about right or wrong, there is no love that can be wrong, especially the kind we had. There must have been a reason, but I didn’t care for whatever it was. He couldn’t even look me in the eye when he said it. How could he end something so wonderful, something so perfect? He said he still loved me, but I didn’t believe him, I couldn’t believe that. I begged him not to kill his beloved and only child. I told him of our joys, our laughs and how love couldn’t be any better. I tried to make him see reason, to convince him that we were to be forever. Thanks to my father.īut this was no punishment. I was a very well behaved child I had all the proper manners for a proper lady. When he was pleased with me, he really would take his time and give me much pleasure that I never knew was possible. He would simply refuse to touch me for days on end. My father had never hit me or scolded me his punishments were usually more severe and silent. This was not like before when he would refuse to touch me because I misbehaved. It was the same look he had when he shot Dragon our Alsatian. I knew my father I knew the look on his face. I had hoped he didn’t mean it, that this was just another punishment, but the way he said it convinced me it was final. It was usually the best birthday present he gives me, a passionate night of love making right out of a romance novel. I thought my birthday would have ended sensually, like all the others. I had taken the week off from school just to be with the only man in my life, the best man I ever knew, or so I thought.
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It felt like a full stop at the end of an epitaph. He said it wasn’t right, what we do, and that we must stop. Everything was perfect.Īnd then, on my twentieth birthday, the unthinkable happened.
I doubt if any other child had so much love. I was twelve that first time, and a happy child, happier than any other child I knew. We began to do it more often, and each time I enjoyed it more.
I went to him the third time it happened, it was raining and the thunders scared me. He told me it was our secret, our special thing, and no one should know about it.