Summer, July 1999—one month since Mom Helen passed. Dad sat on the couch, a half-empty whiskey glass in his hand. The room smelled of liquor and something heavy, something unspoken.
I had just gotten back from college, still adjusting to the silence that filled the house now.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, stepping into the living room. My jeans felt stiff from the drive, my off-the-shoulder T-shirt slipping slightly as I leaned against the doorway.
“Hey, love,” he murmured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, eyes distant.
I stepped further into the living room, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet. Dad looked tired, older than I remembered. Maybe grief did that—aged you in ways no one warned you about. His hair had more grey than I recalled, and the lines around his eyes were deeper. Or maybe I just hadn’t really looked at him in a while.
I sank onto the couch beside him, pulling my legs up beneath me. The scent of whiskey curled in the air between us.
“You been eating?” I asked, watching the way he nursed his drink like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
He huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh. “You sound just like your mother.”
That hit somewhere deep in my chest. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta do it.”
Dad ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the stubble along his jaw. “I try,” he admitted, voice rough. “But it’s hard. Feels different now. Like… what’s the point?”
I swallowed against the lump rising in my throat. “The point is you’re still here.”
He glanced at me then, really looked at me, his eyes bloodshot but soft. “And you, sweetheart? You holding up okay?”
I shrugged, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. “I don’t know. Some days, yeah. Other days, it just… hits me. Like I expect to hear her voice, or smell her perfume when I walk past her room. And when it’s not there, it’s like—” My voice cracked, so I stopped.
Dad nodded like he understood. Because he did. “Yeah.”
We sat in silence for a while. Not the uncomfortable kind. Just the kind that comes when two people understand each other’s pain without needing to say much. The only sound was the ice clinking in his glass when he took another slow sip.
After a moment, I patted his knee and stood up. “Come on,” I said, stretching. “You need real food.”
He raised a brow. “Are you cooking?”
“Unless you wanna live off whiskey and whatever expired junk is in the fridge, yeah.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “Alright, Rachel your the boss. What’s on the menu?”
I smirked. “Whatever I can throw together that won’t kill us.”
In the kitchen, I opened the fridge and sighed. Not much to work with—some eggs, half a loaf of bread, a wrinkled bell pepper, and a pack of bacon that, miraculously, wasn’t expired. I grabbed what I could and got to work, heating the pan while Dad wandered in and leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
“You always were good Rachel at making something out of nothing,” he said, watching as I cracked eggs into a bowl.
I shrugged. “Guess I had a good teacher.”
The bacon sizzled, filling the kitchen with its smoky scent, and for a moment, it felt almost normal. Like Sunday mornings before everything changed. Before the house got too quiet. Before grief settled into the walls.
Dad exhaled, rubbing his hand over his face again. “She’d love this, you know. Seeing you here, cooking, taking care of me.”
I smiled, flipping the bacon. “Yeah. She would.”
Later that night after getting out of the shower and drying off in my room. I put some clean underwear on and throwing on an old long shirt which went to the top of my thighs. My favourite, which I stole from mom as it smelled like her.
I heard crying, I left my room and looked through the gap of dads door.
His shoulders were shaking. The sound of his quiet sobs filled the dimly lit room, raw and broken. I had never seen my father cry before—not like this. Not even at the funeral.
Something inside me twisted. I hesitated in the hallway, fingers gripping the hem of Mom’s old shirt. It still smelled like her, a mix of lavender and something warm I could never quite name. The scent was fading now, just like everything else about her.
I should have walked away. Given him privacy. But I couldn’t.
I knocked softly. “Dad?”
He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to pull himself together. A beat passed before his voice came, rough and hoarse. “Yeah?”
I pushed the door open slightly, peeking in. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the room, making everything feel smaller, heavier.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
He nodded without looking up.
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me, my bare legs brushing against the cool air. The floor creaked as I crossed the room and sat beside him on the bed. Up close, I could see the way grief had hollowed him out—the deep lines around his mouth, the redness in his eyes, the way his hands trembled slightly even as they rested on his thighs.
“I miss her,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
I swallowed hard. “Me too.”
He let out a shaky breath, staring at the floor. “I keep thinking she’s just… in the other room. Like she’s gonna walk in and tell me to stop drinking so damn much.” He gave a small, humourless laugh. “God, I’d give anything to hear her nag at me again.”
Tears burned in my own eyes. “I know.”
Silence settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Just heavy.
Instinctively, I reached out, resting my hand over his. His fingers twitched but didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I said softly.
“I am just a drunk fool,” he said as I climbed into the bed to be closer to him. I put my arms around him as he cried into my shoulder.
I held him, feeling the weight of his grief sink into me. His body shook with every silent sob, and for the first time, I realized just how alone he must have felt. Dad had always been strong, always the one holding things together. But now, without Mom, he was lost.
His hand clutched the fabric of my shirt like he was afraid I’d disappear too. “I don’t know how to do this, Rachel,” he whispered. His breath was warm against my skin, tinged with whiskey and sorrow. “I don’t know how to be without her.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, my fingers gently running through his greying hair. “Me neither,” I admitted. “But we’re still here. We’ll figure it out together.”
He nodded against my shoulder, his breathing uneven. I could feel the exhaustion in him, the way his body had given up fighting the grief, at least for now. I pulled the blanket over us, my cheek resting against his head.
We laid on our side facing each other, he was stroking my hair. He smirked at me, “you have your mothers eyes. She loved that shirt you are wearing.”
He wrapped his arms around me tightly with my breasts pushed against his chest. I rested my thigh over his waist not knowing how close my crotch was to his. He nuzzled into my neck as he faintly started kissing my neck.
“Oh Helen… you smell so good,” he moaned into my neck.
“Dad…” I moaned as he slowly kissed my neck. “It’s me Rachel not…” I felt his dick harden in his boxers as it pointed up straining and touch my pantie covered cunt. I felt it rub against me. Then I felt his hand part my panties from covering my pussy now pulled to the side. His over hand pulling out his cock, next thing I know he’s holding my thigh tightly to his waist and pumping his cock in and out of me.
“Helen oh god it feels so good,” he panted against my neck as he continued to slid in and out of me.
“Ahh ummm, I am not…” I stopped myself, this is wrong. But at the same time, he thought I was mom. Maybe letting him have one last memory wouldn’t hurt. So I just laid there and let him do his thing.
“Oh God…,” he groaned against my neck, hips rocking in an instinctual rhythm as if seeking solace within me. My inner walls hugged him snugly, wet and hot around his thick shaft.
“Oh, Helen…” he moaned softly into my ear as he thrust deeper inside me. His hands slid down my back and gripped my ass tightly. The sensation of his cock sliding in and out of me was intense, overwhelming even. But I didn’t want it to stop.
“Ahh yeah… yeah my pussy oh dad I can’t believe your fucking me,” I moaned as I could hear the sound intense of his cock pounding me.
“Ungh… ahh yeah,” he started to slow down until he stopped. “God what am I doing.”
“It’s ok you can keep going, you may as well. I was enjoying it,” I said panting as he cupped my cheek looking into my eyes as he started thrusting again.
“You sure it’s ok, of fuck you feel good. I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said that but he wasn’t stopping either. “I shouldn’t be inside you Rachel.”
“Y-yes… oh k-keep going, ahh my pussy,” I moaned as he continued to pump in and out my slit.
Feeling the warmth of his breath on my face, I nodded. “Yes, Dad. Keep going,” I whispered, my cheeks flushed with desire and guilt. “I want this too.” I knew it was wrong. It wasn’t mom he was inside, it was me, his daughter, but at this moment, I couldn’t bring myself to stop him. Instead, I wanted to give him the comfort he sought, even if it was only temporary.
He let out a strained breath, eyes dark with desire as he continued to move in me. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through my body, and I knew I was wetter than I’d ever been before. His hand trailed down my body, finding my breast and giving it a gentle squeeze. His thumb brushed over my nipple, sending an electric shiver down my spine.
I reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck as he increased his pace. His muscles tensed under my touch, and I could feel the intensity building between us. I bit my lip, trying to hold back the moans that threatened to escape my throat. I wanted to scream out his name, to let him know how much I wanted him, but something held me back.
Wrapping my legs around his waist, I pulled him closer, feeling his cock slide deeper within me. His hips rocked against mine, each movement more demanding than the last. The tension inside me grew, threatening to consume me as his hand slid between us, finding my clit and rubbing it in small, circular motions.
I cried out, my back arching as I felt myself on the edge of an orgasm. It was too much, too intense. The combination of his cock filling me and his fingers on my clit was almost too much to bear. I was lost in the pleasure, drowning in the sensations coursing through me.
“Fuck, Rachel… I’m going to cum,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. I felt him tense, his cock swelling even more as he struggled to hold back his orgasm.
“Yes, Dad… cum inside me,” I begged, unable to control the words that spilled from my lips. “Fill me up.”
With a strangled groan, he exploded, his cock throbbing deep within me as he filled me with his warm release. I clung to him, my own orgasm ripping through me as I rode out the intense waves of pleasure.
We lay there, panting and slick with sweat, our hearts racing as our breathing slowly returned to normal. I knew the guilt would come, and I knew the questions would follow. But for now, all I could focus on was the warmth of his body against mine and the knowledge that for this one moment, we had found some small comfort in each other.
After when he came hard inside me, he cried into my shoulder. as I held him tightly. The weight of what we had done hung heavy in the air, but there was also a sense of relief. We had both found solace in each other, if only for a moment. It was wrong, but it felt right.
“I’m so sorry, Rachel,” he whispered, his breath still uneven and his body shaking slightly.
I cupped his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. “We didn’t do anything wrong, Dad. It was just something you needed.”
He nodded slowly, tears still wet on his cheeks. “I know. I just… I can’t believe I did that.”
“And I can’t believe I let you,” I admitted, a small smile playing on my lips.
“I don’t know what came over me. I thought you were your mom.” He paused, then added quietly, “I miss her so much.”
The reality of what had just happened began to settle in, and I felt a mix of emotions – guilt, confusion, and even some lingering pleasure from the intensity of our encounter. I knew it was wrong, but at the same time, I understood his need for comfort and the blurring of boundaries in moments of intense grief.
We lay there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, both of us lost in our thoughts. Gradually, his breathing slowed, as did mine, and we both drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, we woke up tangled in each other’s arms, the warmth of his body and the lingering scent of our shared passion flooding my senses. I could feel his semi-erect cock nestled against my thigh, a silent reminder of what had transpired between us the night before. My own body felt deliciously sore, my inner walls still clinging to the memory of his thick shaft.
Guilt gnawed at my insides, guilt that I had let this happen, but also guilt that I had enjoyed it. I couldn’t help but think of my mother and how she would have reacted if she knew. But there was also a sense of comfort in knowing that I had been there for my father in his time of need, providing him with something he had been desperately seeking since her passing.
As we untangled ourselves, his eyes met mine, and I saw in them a mixture of confusion, sadness, and desire. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch tender and intimate.
“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I know what we did was… wrong. But I also feel like I’ve found some solace, some connection to your mother that I thought I’d never feel again.”
I nodded, struggling to find the words to convey my own tumultuous emotions. “I… I understand, Dad. I don’t know how to process this either. But I think we both just need to focus on healing, and maybe one day, we can find a way to forgive ourselves.”
He pulled me close again, resting his chin on the top of my head. “I love you, Rachel. More than anything.”
“I love you too, Dad.”