When I didn't answer your call at lunchtime, you decided to stop by my place on your way home. And when I didn't answer your knock, you opened the unlocked door and stepped inside.

Now, you stand beside my bed, silent as you undress. I'm naked and curled into the tightest ball I can manage; the covers are twisted around my feet. Dusk's shadows give the room a violet tinge.

With a faint sigh, you lie down next to me. Your fingers trail along the knots of my spine. 

Of course, you know I've been like this since you left me last night. Since I told you I needed to be alone with my grief. 

I'm disgusted by my tears. I loathe my sorrow for a man I never knew. Had I really held such hope that he would one day acknowledge me as his daughter? No chance of that now. In death, he isn't merely absent from my life. He is irrevocably gone.

Though I offer little resistance when you ease me onto my back and move closer, I want to squirm away from your warmth. It feels too much like comfort. You smooth my disheveled hair out of my face. Breathing in, I catch the unwashed smell clinging to me. I need a shower.

None of this bothers you. Without hesitation, you take me in your arms and whisper, "Who am I to you?"

I roll my eyes. "Christ, I didn't mean anything when I called you that. It was just roleplay!"

Your hand inches toward my breast. "Who am I to you?"

I wriggle in your embrace, but you hold me fast. In an attempt to hide, I turn my face from yours. Why does your question hurt like a dirty finger prodding a wound? 

"Just go." My voice is a warning: I will push you away. I will deny you, the way he denied me all those years.

And like me, you will eventually decide you've had enough. You'll leave, with nothing to show for your efforts but bitterness. 

Again, you ask the question. When I don't reply, you slip your hand between my thighs. Your touch is gentle, drawing out the need in me. Despite the tears flooding my eyes, my clit responds to your subtle pressure.

"Tell me," you urge in that quiet, soothing tone. "Who am I to you?"

A traitorous moan escapes my throat. "You're the man..." My hips give a thrust. "The man I've been seeing for a year."

Your fingers grow still while you kiss my neck. "I'm more than that."

Humiliation burns my face, hot as a slap. I want to remind you that you're only a few years older than me. I'm tempted to lash out and tell you you're not some fount of wisdom. You're not equipped to play this part. 

Fighting back my worst impulses, I say, "I'm not having this conversation. You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?"

You roll my swollen clit between your fingertips until I release a sob. In desperation, I cling to your arm. Even as my nails leave divots in your skin, you don't shake me off.

Instead, you work harder to bring me to orgasm. It seems wrong, to feel such pleasure when I'm sick with despair.

But I can't flee, not from any of it. Not when you're touching me, and not when you again demand an answer to your question.

I let out an anguished wail. Beside you, I feel stripped raw. With your fingers, your words, you've peeled back all my defenses. Fat tears leak from my eyes. I shudder, praying for my climax to descend. I ache for the deliverance it promises. 

When it arrives, the spasms wring my body of its misery. My spine arches, and I try to evade your touch. It's too much and not enough. I'm both starving and glutted with ecstasy. 

I make a keening sound, terrifying for me to hear. I'm losing all control; I fear the very shreds of my sanity are fraying.

Your voice anchors me to this bed, to the here and now. 

To you.

"Tell me."

I turn my head. In the semidarkness, I can still see your face, your loving smile. 

"Tell me who I am to you."

This time, the answer is ready on my tongue. It issues forth as a confession, a plea, a vow.

"Daddy," I whisper. "You're Daddy."