Woman of the house: how I comfort Daddy

The thin wall between our rooms does nothing to muffle the sound. It never has. I lie on my back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck to the ceiling when I was twelve—they're mostly dead now, just pale yellow dots against white plaster. The clock on my nightstand glows 2:47 AM.

Through the wall: a hitched breath. A shudder. Then that low, wet sob he thinks he's hiding.

I press my palms flat over my ears. It doesn't help. I know the rhythm by heart now, three weeks in. First the creak of his bedsprings as he lies down, then silence long enough to trick me into thinking tonight might be different, then the first crack in his voice, like glass breaking under water.

Fuck.

I roll onto my side and punch my pillow into a lump. Down the hall, Lily's room is quiet—she's six, she sleeps through anything. Tommy's eight, and I caught him last night standing in the hallway with his thumb in his mouth, listening. I am the oldest at fourteen and I guess I am the woman of the house now. I have to take charge. I told him Dad was just coughing. He looked at me with those too-old eyes and went back to bed without a word.

I hate this.

I hate that Mom left. I hate that she didn't fight for us. I hate that I'm the one who has to hold the pieces together during the day—making peanut butter sandwiches, checking homework, signing permission slips—while he stares at the TV with the sound off. And then at night, when the house goes dark, he falls apart.

And I have to lie here and listen.

My jaw aches from clenching. I push the covers off, swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards are cold under my bare feet. I stand there for a long moment, hand hovering over the doorknob, my heart hammering.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do. What do you say to a father who's crying? He's supposed to be the strong one. He's supposed to tell me everything's going to be okay.

But he can't. And I don't know how to.

I open the door. The hallway is dark except for the orange nightlight in the bathroom. His door is cracked open, a sliver of lamplight bleeding through.

Another sob, muffled, like he's pressing a pillow to his face.

I walk. My feet carry me before my brain catches up. I stop outside his door, my hand raised to knock, my knuckles hovering an inch from the wood.

I hate this.

But I can't just stand here and let him drown alone.
The moment my hand closes around the doorknob, the sound stops. A sharp inhale from inside, then the frantic rustle of blankets—he's trying to compose himself, wiping his face, sitting up. I push the door open before he can pretend.

He's on the edge of his bed, back to me, shoulders hunched. A crumpled tissue in his fist. The lamp on his nightstand casts a warm glow across the room, catching the silver threads in his hair I never noticed before.

"Lily?" His voice cracks, hoarse and raw. "Honey, go back to bed. I'm fine."

I don't say anything. I cross the room in three steps and wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek against his shoulder blade. I am the woman of the house now, it is my duty to comfort him. He stiffens for a second, then his whole body sags. His hand comes up to cover mine.

We stay like that for a long time. The clock ticks. The house settles. His breathing slowly evens out, hiccupping every few SECONDS. Eventually, he pulls me around to sit beside him. He keeps holding my hand, staring at the floor. And then, like a dam breaking, he starts talking.

He tells me about their first date—a dive bar with sticky floors and a jukebox that only played country. She wore a yellow sundress and laughed at his jokes even when they weren't funny. He knew right then, he said. Knew she was the one.

"She had hair just like yours," he whispers, fingers brushing a strand behind my ear. "Same shade of blond. Same green eyes. Sometimes I see you and I—" His voice breaks. "I can't stop myself from missing her, Lily. I can't."

My chest aches. I squeeze his hand. I feel so guilty to remind him of his loss. Mom left. We should all forget her. But talking about her is part of the healing. "What exactly do you miss, Dad?"

A pause. Then a flush creeps up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He looks away, jaw tight. "Adult things, Lily. Don't ask."

But I don't look away. I keep my eyes on his face, my hand sliding from his grip to rest on his thigh. I know what adult things are. I used to have a boyfriend before all this mess. I feel the muscle jump under my palm.

"Tell me," I say, my voice low.

He shakes his head, but his breathing quickens. I let my hand drift higher, over the worn denim of his jeans. He gasps, eyes snapping to mine.

"Lily, what are you—"

I press my palm flat against his cock. It's already half-hard through the fabric. He sucks in a breath, but he doesn't push me away. He doesn't move at all, just stares at me with wide, wet eyes.

"I can comfort you, Daddy," I whisper, the word slipping out like it's always belonged there. "I can be Mommy for you. Just like I am for Tommy and Lily."

His mouth falls open. A shudder runs through him. I unbuckle his belt, pop the button, lower the zipper. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, and I wrap my fingers around the shaft before he can speak.

He doesn't.

I lean down, taking him in my mouth. He tastes like salt and skin. I move slowly at first, watching his head fall back, his hands clench the sheets. My tongue traces the vein along the underside, and he groans, a deep, broken sound that makes my thighs press together.

I pick up speed, hollowing my cheeks, taking him deeper. His hips twitch, a soft thrust into my mouth. I don't pull away. I let him fuck my throat, let him use me the way I'm offering. His breathing turns ragged, his fingers find my hair, not pushing, just holding.

"I'm—Lily, I'm gonna—"

I don't stop. I take him all the way, feel the pulse against my tongue, and then he comes, hot and thick, spilling down my throat. I swallow, once, twice, pulling back only when he's spent.

He slumps against the headboard, chest heaving, face a mask of shock and shame and something else—relief.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and crawl up beside him, curling into his side. "It's okay," I murmur. "I'm here. I'll always be here. I am the woman of this house, I will take care of all of you."

He doesn't answer. But his arm comes around me, pulling me close, and I feel his lips press against the top of my head.I feel the warmth of his breath against my hair, the dampness of his spent body still shuddering against mine. But the night isn't over. Not yet.

He shifts, turning toward me, his hand sliding from my shoulder down my side, over my hip. His fingers dip beneath the hem of my shirt, grazing the bare skin of my waist. I shiver.

"Lily," he murmurs, voice rough. "Look at me."

I do. His eyes are still wet, but there's something else in them now—hunger, maybe, or desperation. The same ache that's been eating him alive, only redirected.

He pushes me back onto the mattress, lays me out beneath him. His hands slide up my thighs, hook into the waistband of my pajama shorts, and pull them down. I lift my hips to help, watching his face as he sees me completely bare.

He doesn't speak. He lowers his head between my legs, and the first touch of his tongue against my pussy makes me gasp. He's gentle at first—slow, deliberate licks that circle my clit, testing, tasting. I arch into his mouth, and he groans against me, the vibration sending a jolt straight through my core.

His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider. He sucks my clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, and I cry out, fingers tangling in his hair. His stubble scrapes my sensitive skin, rough and perfect. I'm already wet from earlier, from what I did to him, and he laps at me like he's starving, like I'm the only thing that'll save him.

"Dad—" I gasp, but he doesn't stop. He pushes a finger inside me, then two, curling them against that spot that makes my vision blur. My hips buck against his face, and he moans into me, the sound vibrating through my whole body.

I come fast, hard, my back bowing off the mattress as I cry out his name. He doesn't pull away, tongue still working me through it, lapping up every drop until I'm trembling, oversensitive.

But he's not done.

He crawls up my body, and I feel his cock—hard again, thick and slick with my spit and his cum—press against my thigh. He catches my wrists, pins them over my head with one hand, and looks down at me.

"I need you," he says, voice raw. "Daddy wants to fuck you baby or is it little mommy."

I don't care what he calls me. I nod, breathless. "Then take me, Daddy."

He lines himself up and pushes in. The stretch makes me gasp, he keeps going, sinking into me inch by inch until his hips are flush against mine. He's inside me, all the way, and I feel so full, so claimed.

He starts fucking me. Hard, relentless, each thrust driving into my deepest places. I'm pinned, helpless under him, and I love it. The way he grunts with every stroke, the way his eyes never leave mine, the way his grip tightens on my wrists.

I feel my second orgasm building, coiling tight in my belly. He shifts angle, hits that spot again, and I shatter, clenching around him as I cum for the second time, my body convulsing under his. He groans, doesn't stop fucking me through it, chasing his own release.

He pauses, breath ragged, and looks down at me with something close to panic in his eyes. "Please don't leave like she did."

I reach up, cup his face. "I won't, Daddy. I belong to you."

His expression softens, but the hunger doesn't fade. He pulls out, flips onto his back, and pulls me on top of him. I straddle his hips, feel his cock pressed between us, slick and ready.

"Do you want to have Daddy's baby?" he asks, hands settling on my waist.

"Yes."

I guide him inside me, sinking down slowly, taking him all the way. I ride him, rocking my hips, watching his face twist with pleasure. His hands find my breasts, my hips, everywhere. I lean forward and kiss him, and he kisses me back like I'm air.

I feel him pulse inside me, feel the heat of his release as he cums deep, filling me. I keep moving, grinding, drawing out every last drop.

When we're both spent, he pulls me down against his chest, stroking my hair. His lips press to my forehead.

"Take your things," he whispers. "You can sleep in this bedroom from now on."

I smile against his skin. "Okay, Daddy."

I don't move yet, though. Not right away. I stay curled into him, listening to his heartbeat slow, feeling the weight of his arms around me. The house is quiet. The crying is over.

I'm finally home.
I stay tangled in him through the night, our bodies sticky and warm under the thin blanket. His arm is draped across my waist, his breath slow and even against my hair. For the first time in months, the house is silent except for the soft creak of old wood settling.

I wake to sunlight bleeding through the curtains and the press of something hard against my thigh. I shift, and he stirs behind me, his cock twitching against my skin. His hand slides from my waist down to my hip, squeezing.

"I still can't believe this tight pussy is now mine," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

Before I can answer, he rolls me onto my stomach, hikes my hips up, and slides into me from behind. No warning, no teasing—just that thick, sudden fullness that makes me gasp into the pillow. He starts fucking me hard, fast, his hips slapping against my ass. I grip the sheets, moaning into the fabric as he pounds into me, deeper with every thrust.

"Fuck, Lily," he grunts, fingers digging into my hips. "You feel so good."

I'm still slick from last night, still sensitive, and the stretch of him inside me is overwhelming. He reaches around, finds my clit, rubs it in rough circles. I come undone, crying out as my orgasm rips through me, clenching around his cock.

He groans, drives deep, and I feel him pulse as he cums—hot, thick, flooding me. He stays buried, panting, his forehead pressed to my shoulder.

The door creaks open.

I freeze. My dad tenses behind me.

My younger sister, Mia, stands in the doorway in her Frozen pajamas, hair a mess, rubbing her eyes. She blinks at us, taking in the scene—me on my stomach, dad behind me, both of us naked and tangled.

Her face doesn't twist with shock or confusion. Instead, she tilts her head, a small, familiar look crossing her features.

"Are you Mom now?" she asks, her voice soft, curious.

Dad shifts, pulling out slowly, and I feel his cum trickle down my thigh as he grabs the blanket to cover us. He clears his throat, but his voice is gentle.

"Mia, honey—come here."

She pads over, climbs onto the edge of the bed. Dad wraps an arm around her, pulling her close. He looks at me, then back at her.

"You remember when you used to walk in on Mommy and me?" he asks quietly.

She nods, her eyes a little distant. "Yeah. You were doing the same thing. On top of her."

"That's right, sweetheart." He strokes her hair. "Well... Lily is going to take care of me now. Like Mommy did."

Mia looks at me, her green eyes—the same shade as Mom's, as mine—searching my face. "Are you gonna stay?"

I sit up, letting the blanket fall. I don't care that I'm bare in front of her. This is my house now. My family.

"Yes, baby," I say, my voice steady, warm. "I'm staying. Forever."

Her eyes light up. A smile breaks across her face, bright and genuine, like I've just told her we're going to Disneyland.

"Does that mean we can have a new brother?" she asks, bouncing a little on the mattress.

Dad laughs—a real laugh, the first I've heard in months. He looks at me, his eyes soft, grateful.

"Go make us some breakfast, okay, kiddo?" he says to Mia. "Lily and I will be out in a bit."

She hops off the bed, skipping toward the door. "Okay, Daddy! Can we have pancakes?"

"Whatever you want, princess."

She disappears down the hall, and I hear her little footsteps padding toward the kitchen, the clatter of cabinet doors opening.

I turn to Dad, still feeling his cum warm inside me, trickling down my thigh. He looks at me, reaches out, cups my face.

"You're amazing," he says.

I lean into his hand, smiling. "I know."

I get up, feel his release drip down my leg, and I don't wipe it away. I pull on his shirt from last night, the one he was wearing when he was crying, and I feel proud. I'm carrying him inside me. I'm taking care of him.

I walk to the kitchen, my thighs sticky, my body sore in all the right places. Mia is standing on a step stool, pulling flour from the cabinet. Tommy is playing with toys. I beam with joy. The house is back to normal.

"Lily! Can you help me reach the syrup?"

"Of course, baby."

I lift her up, set her on the counter, and kiss her forehead. The sun is pouring through the kitchen window. The house smells like morning. And for the first time since Mom left, it feels like home.

I am the woman of this house now.

And I'm never letting go.