Prison Daddy
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 9: The Years
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 9: The Years - Rafael raped his sister Carmen. Esme is their daughter—a child of incest. For fifteen years, Carmen stays silent, believing it will protect her. Rosa believes her imprisoned son deserves family. She arranges the connection. Carmen tried to shield Esme by telling her nothing. Rosa filled the silence with access to Rafael. Rafael filled Esme's void with stories. And Esme filled her womb with his children.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Heterosexual Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Pregnancy Voyeurism Size AI Generated
Luna at three months old:
The visits started when Luna was three months old.
Every three months. Like clockwork.
Pack the diaper bag. Take the bus. Walk through the gates. Trailer 8.
Rafael waiting outside. Always waiting.
He scooped Luna from my arms. Held her against his chest.
“My baby girl. My perfect baby girl.”
His eyes were wet.
I stood in the doorway. Sixteen years old. My shirt damp with leaked breast milk. The bus ride had taken three hours.
Inside the trailer, Rafael sat on the couch with Luna. Stared at her like she was a miracle.
“She has your eyes.”
“She has your everything else.”
“She’s perfect.” He traced her tiny hand with his finger. “When I get out, we’ll be a real family. The three of us.”
“Yeah.”
I believed him then. Believed in the fantasy. The three of us in an apartment somewhere. Normal life. Normal family.
That lasted maybe another year.
Luna at six months:
She reached for him when she saw him. Arms out. Making that excited baby sound.
Rafael’s whole face changed. “She knows me. My baby girl knows me.”
He took her. Spun her gently. She laughed.
I watched from the couch. Exhausted. My breasts aching. I needed to pump soon.
That night, Luna slept in the bedroom. Rafael and I on the pullout couch.
His mouth on my neck. Hands on my waist.
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
He moved against me, inside me. I closed my eyes. Let my body answer.
When it was over he whispered, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We fell asleep tangled together.
In the morning I went to the bathroom. Sat on the toilet. Felt the warmth of him leaving me.
Luna at eighteen months:
Mateo was two months old.
I brought both of them on the bus. Luna in a stroller. Mateo strapped to my chest in a carrier.
The trip took four hours. Luna cried the last hour. Mateo needed to nurse twice.
By the time we got to the trailer, I wanted to sleep for a week.
Rafael took Luna. She clung to his neck.
“Papi!”
“My big girl! Look how big you are!”
Carmen had helped me pack that morning. Made sandwiches. Put juice boxes in the diaper bag. Checked that I had enough diapers.
“You don’t have to go,” she’d said.
“He’s their father.”
She didn’t respond. Just zipped the bag closed. Handed it to me.
When Luna turned two:
Running now. Chasing. Playing.
Rafael got on his hands and knees. Crawled after her around the trailer.
“Papi catch me!”
She shrieked with laughter when he grabbed her. Lifted her. Spun her.
I sat on the couch. Mateo nursing. Watching them play.
Rafael sat next to me after. His hand on my thigh.
“She’s getting so big.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay? You look tired.”
“I’m always tired.”
His hand squeezed. “You’re doing a good job.”
I nodded. Didn’t have energy to respond.
That night we had sex. Him on top. Me on my back. The rhythm was automatic now. My body knew what to do.
The pressure built. Released. My body clenching around him.
He came inside me. Rolled off.
We lay there in the dark.
“When I get out, we’ll be together. A real family.”
“Okay.”
I fell asleep before he did.
The fantasy was fading. But I didn’t have the energy to examine why.
When Luna turned three:
I started teaching her letters at the kitchen table.
Alphabet blocks. Construction paper. Crayons.
“What letter is this?”
“A!”
“Good. And this one?”
“B!”
Mateo played on the floor with his cars. Carmen was at work.
We did this every morning. Letters. Numbers. Shapes. Colors.
Luna was good at it. Liked learning.
“Mama, what’s this word?”
“Sound it out.”
“C-A-T. Cat!”
“Yes! Good job, baby.”
She beamed.
When Carmen came home from work that afternoon, she stood in the doorway. Watched us at the table.
“She’s smart,” Carmen said.
“Yeah.”
“You going to send her to pre-K?”
“Can’t afford it.”
“Public pre-K is free.”
“I know.”
Carmen waited.
“I’m teaching her myself,” I said. “It’s fine.”
Carmen’s jaw tightened. But she didn’t argue.
When Luna turned four:
Sofia was born that spring.
Three kids now. The apartment was too small.
Luna and Mateo shared one bedroom. Bunk beds crammed against the wall. Toys everywhere.
Sofia’s crib was next to my bed. She cried every two hours through the night.
I was twenty years old. Three kids. Living in my mother’s two-bedroom apartment.
One morning Carmen came into the kitchen. I was making breakfast. Sofia screaming in the other room.
“There’s a studio available next door.”
I looked up. “Yeah?”
“3A. I’m thinking about taking it.”
My hands stopped. “What?”
“You need space. The kids need space.” She looked around. Toys on every surface. Laundry piled on the table. “This was fine when it was just you and Luna. But three kids—”
“This is your apartment—”
“It was my mother’s apartment. Now it’s yours.” She paused. “I’ll be right next door. Ten feet away. But you’ll have both bedrooms. The kids can have actual space.”
“Carmen—”
“I’m thirty-six years old, Esme. I need my own space. Some quiet.”
She said it matter-of-factly. Not cruel. Just honest.
“Let me do this.”
I looked at her. At my mother. Who’d been there for every birth. Every sleepless night. Every moment I thought I couldn’t do it.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Carmen moved to 3A two weeks later. Tiny studio. Just room for a bed and a small table. But it was hers.
And 3B became ours.
I took Carmen’s old bedroom. Put Sofia’s crib next to my bed.
Luna and Mateo got the other bedroom. More floor space. Room to play.
Carmen kept her key to 3B. Was over every morning before I woke up. Making coffee. Starting breakfast. Helping Luna get dressed while I nursed Sofia.
The kids didn’t see a boundary.
“Abuela, can I have juice?”
“Abuela, read me a story!”
She never said no.
But she also never stayed long. In by 6:30 AM. Out by 8:00 for work. Back at 5:00 PM for a few hours. Then back to 3A.
She helped. But she also kept her distance.
That summer - Extended visit:
All four of us. Me, Luna, Mateo, Sofia.
Luna was four and a half. Old enough to remember. Old enough to understand.
“Papi!” She ran to him across the yard.
He caught her. Lifted her. “My big girl! You’re so tall!”
“I’m four now!”
“I know! You’re so grown up!”
Mateo was shy. Two years old. Didn’t remember Rafael between visits.
But Luna adored him.
She helped with Sofia. Held the bottle while I changed her diaper. Brought me wipes. Entertained Mateo when Rafael and I needed to talk.
“She’s so good with them,” Rafael said that night. Kids asleep in the bedroom. Just us in the living area.
“She is.”
His hands on my waist. “You’re a good mama.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” His mouth on my neck. “I wish I could help more. Be there with you.”
We moved to the bedroom. Closed the door.
Sex was quick. Quiet. Couldn’t risk waking the kids.
Him on top. Moving carefully. Slowly.
I closed my eyes. Focused on the sensation. The pressure building.
My body responded. The familiar tightening. The release.
He finished inside me. Stayed there for a moment. Breathing hard.
Then pulled out. Rolled onto his back.
I stared at the ceiling.
In the morning I went to the bathroom before the kids woke up. Sat on the toilet. Cleaned myself.
The routine.
When Luna turned five:
I was teaching Luna to read now.
Simple books from the library. Dr. Seuss. Berenstain Bears.
“Sound it out, baby. You know these words.”
“The ... cat ... in ... the ... hat!”
“Yes! Good job!”
Mateo colored at the table. Sofia in her high chair with Cheerios.
This was our classroom. Kitchen table. Library books. Printer paper Carmen brought home from work.
No school. No teachers. No other kids.
Just us.
Luna helped constantly. “Sofia, you need to stay in your chair. Mateo, use the red crayon for the apple.”
Patient. Mature. More like a little mother than a five-year-old.
Carmen came over during her lunch break one day. Brought sandwiches.
Watched Luna directing her siblings. Managing them.
“She’s very responsible.”
“She has to be.”
Carmen looked at me. Opened her mouth. Closed it.
Left the sandwiches and went back to work.
When Luna turned six:
Diego was born.
Four kids now.
The hospital had complications. Diego came six weeks early. NICU. Weeks of monitoring.
The doctor was clear: “No travel. Not until he’s stable. Not until you’re recovered.”
An excuse not to visit. Not to pack up four kids. Not to make that trip.
Six months passed before Diego was healthy enough.
By then I was a different kind of tired. The kind that lives in your bones.
When I finally called to schedule a visit, Luna cried with excitement.
“Really? We’re going to see Papi?”
“Yes, baby.”
“Finally!”
She’d missed him. Talked about him constantly during the gap.
Hadn’t thought about him once in those six months. Not once.
When Luna turned seven:
Money was always tight.
Welfare check. Food stamps. Carmen’s paycheck contribution for rent and utilities.
I cleaned houses sometimes when Carmen could watch the kids. Under the table. Fifty dollars here. Seventy-five there.
Enough for bus fare to Greenhaven. Enough for the vending machines.
Luna was in second grade now. Public school, two blocks away. She came home with worksheets and drawings and stories about her teacher.
“What’s seven plus five?”
She counted on her fingers. “Twelve!”
“Good. Now try this one without your fingers.”
Mateo was starting kindergarten level. Sofia was learning her letters. Diego was two.
We sat at the kitchen table every morning. Lessons. Worksheets. Reading time.
Luna helped with the younger ones. Sat with Mateo while I nursed Diego. Read to Sofia while I made lunch.
“Sound it out, Sofia. You know this word.”
“D-O-G. Dog!”
“Yes! Good job!”
Luna was patient. Better at teaching than I was sometimes.
This was our life. Kitchen table classroom. All of us crammed together.
No school buses. No other kids. No teachers.
Just us.
When Luna turned eight:
One morning during a visit, Luna came into the bedroom early.
I was still in bed. Rafael next to me. Sheet pulled around us.
“Mama?”
I sat up fast. Clutched the sheet. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Nothing. I just—” She hesitated. “Why were you making noises last night?”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“I heard you. Through the wall. You were breathing funny. Were you having a bad dream?”
Rafael was awake now. I felt him listening.
“I—yes. Just a bad dream.”
“Oh. Okay.” She paused. “It sounded like you were crying.”
“I wasn’t crying. I’m fine.” I forced a smile. “Go back to the living room, okay? I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay.”
She left.
Rafael looked at me. A small smile on his face.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Don’t.”
He got up. Got dressed. Went to make breakfast for the kids.
I sat there. Heart pounding.
She was getting old enough to notice. To question.
When Luna turned nine:
Rafael started calling her separately after family video calls.
It was a Saturday. We’d all just said goodnight on the laptop. Kids waving at the screen.
“Goodnight, Papi!”
“Goodnight, babies. I love you.”
I started to close the laptop.
“Luna, wait,” Rafael’s voice.
She looked at the screen. “Yes, Papi?”
“Can you stay on? I want to hear about your schoolwork. How you’re doing with reading.”
Luna glanced at me. “Can I, Mama?”
“For a few minutes. Then bed.”
“Okay!”
She took the laptop to her room. Closed the door.
I heard her voice through the wall. Excited. Talking fast.
“I’m reading Harry Potter now! Mama says I’m at fourth grade level!”
His response too quiet to hear through the door.
Luna laughed. “Really? You think so?”
The call lasted forty-five minutes.
When I knocked, Luna opened the door reluctantly.
“Just a few more minutes?”
“Luna, it’s almost ten—”
“Please, Mama? Papi was telling me about when he was my age.”
I looked past her at the laptop. Rafael’s face on the screen. Smiling.
“Five more minutes. Then bed.”
“Thank you!”
She closed the door.
I stood in the hallway. Listening to her voice.
Soft. Intimate. Telling him things.
After a while, I walked away.
Honestly? It gave me a break.
When Luna turned ten:
The separate calls became routine.
Every Saturday. Family call first. Then Rafael would ask for Luna specifically.
“Can Luna stay on? I want to talk to her about something.”
She’d take the laptop to her room. Talk for an hour. Sometimes two.
I’d hear her voice through the door. Laughing. Serious. Confiding.
When she came out, her eyes would be red sometimes.
“Were you crying?”
“No. Just tired.”
“What do you talk about for so long?”
“Stuff. School. Life. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He’s my dad, Mama. I’m allowed to talk to him.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
One visit that summer, Rafael taught Luna to make sofrito in the trailer’s tiny kitchen.
“Like this, Papi?”
“Perfect. You’re a natural.”
His hand on her shoulder. Guiding her.
Luna beamed under his praise.
I watched from the couch. Diego asleep on my lap. Sofia and Mateo playing cards at the table.
A father teaching his daughter to cook. Normal. Sweet.
Rafael looked over at me. “She’s so mature for her age.”
“She has to be.”
“Still. You’ve raised her well.”
I nodded.
That night after the kids were asleep, we had sex. The routine. Him on top. My body responded because that’s what bodies do. I came. He came. We slept.
In the morning—the bathroom. The cleanup. The leak.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Twenty-six years old. Four kids. The tattoo more visible now. Stretched skin.
His mark. Still there.
I traced it with my finger. R&E.
Once it had meant everything. Proof I was his. Proof I was special.
Now it was just there. Part of my body. Like a scar. Like stretch marks.
Not painful. Not precious.
Just—part of the landscape.
Rafael was the father of my children. We had sex every three months. We said “I love you” because that’s what we’d always said.
But the heat was gone. The desperate need. The feeling that I’d die without him.
That had faded years ago.
Summer visit - Luna age ten:
That summer was hot. Luna had just finished fourth grade.
All five of us made the trip. Luna, Mateo, Sofia, Diego, and me.
Rafael was waiting outside the trailer. Saw Luna and grinned.
Bent down, opened his arms. She ran to him.
He scooped her up. “You’re getting too big for this!”
“No I’m not!”
He spun her anyway. Set her down. Ruffled her hair.
“How’s my big girl?”
“Good! I missed you!”
“I missed you too, mija.”
That weekend was normal.
Board games. Movies on the small TV. Taking turns watching kids while the other showered.
Luna helped constantly. Read to Sofia. Played with Diego. Kept Mateo entertained.
“Thank you, baby,” I told her Saturday night. Kids finally in bed. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“I like helping.”
“I know. But you’re only ten. You should get to be a kid too.”
“I am a kid.”
“I know.”
But she wasn’t. Not really. She’d been helping raise her siblings since she was four.
Saturday night, after all the kids were asleep, Rafael pulled me into the bedroom.
His hands on my waist. Mouth on my neck.
“Come here.”
We had sex. Him on top. Me on my back. The familiar rhythm.
I didn’t chase it anymore. Just let my body respond.
His thickness filled me. Stretched me. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
I closed my eyes. The sensation. The pressure. The friction.
My body tightened. Released. Quiet. Inevitable.
He finished inside me. Stayed there for a moment. Breathing hard.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
The words automatic. Like breathing.
He pulled out. Rolled onto his back.
I stared at the ceiling.
From the other room — one of the kids. A small sound. Then nothing.
She’s so mature for her age.
I didn’t know why I was still thinking about that.
In the morning I went to the bathroom. Sat on the toilet. Felt his cum leak out.
Looked down at myself. Twenty-six years old. Four pregnancies.
The tattoo visible. Permanent.
I cleaned myself up. Went back to the bedroom.
Rafael was already up. Making breakfast with the kids.
Sunday morning we left.
Luna hugged Rafael goodbye.
“See you in three months, Papi!”
“See you then, mija. Be good for your mama.”
“I will!”
We walked away. Across the yard. Through the gates. To the bus stop.
Luna turned back. Waved.
Rafael waved back.
On the bus ride home.
I’d gone through the entire weekend on autopilot. Packed bags. Managed kids. Had sex. Packed up. Left.
Just—did it.
The routine.
March 2020 - Luna’s eleventh birthday:
The letter came a week after her birthday.
Due to COVID-19 pandemic, all in-person visitation suspended until further notice. Inmates may make video calls through approved vendors. For more information visit...
Luna cried.
“When can we see Papi?”
“I don’t know, baby. When the pandemic ends.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
Rafael called that night. Video call on my laptop.
We all gathered around. Kids crowded into frame.
“Hi Papi!”
“Hey, babies. I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed.”
“When can we visit?”
“I don’t know. But we can talk like this. Every week. Okay?”
“Okay.”
After the kids went to bed, Rafael called again.
I answered. Expected to see his face.
“Can you get Luna?” he asked.
“It’s late—”
“Please. Just for a few minutes. I want to talk to her.”
I went to Luna’s room. She was still awake. Reading.
“Papi wants to talk to you.”
Her face lit up. She took the laptop.
I left. Closed the door.
Heard her voice through the wall. Muffled but desperate.
“I miss you, Papi ... I know ... Me too...”
The call lasted an hour.
Luna at eleven - Spring:
The calls became routine.
Every Friday. The whole family. Gathered around the laptop.
But Rafael also called Luna separately. Multiple times a week.
“Can I talk to Luna? Just her?”
She’d take the laptop to her room. Close the door.
I’d hear her voice. Soft. Intimate.
“Hi, Papi ... Yes, I miss you too ... I know ... Soon...”
The calls got longer. An hour. Two hours.
I’d knock eventually.
“Luna, other people need the laptop.”
“Just a few more minutes!”
When she finally came out, her eyes would be red.
“Were you crying?”
“No.”
But she was.
One afternoon Carmen came over. Heard Luna’s voice through the door. Animated. Laughing.
“How long has she been on?”
“About an hour.”
“What do they talk about?”
“I don’t know. Books. School.”
Carmen looked at Luna’s closed door. Then at me.
“That’s a long time.”
“He’s her father.”
Carmen didn’t respond. Just went back to the kitchen.
But I saw her face.
Luna at twelve - Spring:
Letters arrived constantly.
Once a week at first. Then twice. Then almost daily.
Luna would run to the mailbox every afternoon.
“Did anything come for me?”
When there was a letter, she’d grab it. Disappear to her room. Door closed.
She kept them in a shoebox under her bed. Covered in stickers.
One day I saw her reading them. Late at night. Door cracked open. Moonlight from the window.
She held the letters carefully. Traced the words with her finger.
Then put them back in the box. Gentle. Like they were precious.
Luna at twelve - Summer:
Her period started.
She came to me one afternoon. Face red.
“Mama?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think—I think I started my period.”
I took her to the bathroom. Helped her. Showed her how to use a pad. Gave her ibuprofen for cramps.
“Is this normal?”
“Yes, mija. This is normal. It means your body is growing up.”
“Growing up how?”
I took a breath. “You know how babies grow in a woman’s belly?”
Luna nodded.
“Well, every month your body gets ready for that. Just in case. And when there’s no baby, it cleans itself out. That’s what the blood is.”
“Oh. So this will happen every month?”
“Yes. Until you’re much older.”
“Does it always hurt?”
“Sometimes. But the ibuprofen helps.”
“Okay.”
That night I heard Luna on the phone with Rafael.
Her door was closed but her voice carried.
“Papi, guess what? I started my period today ... I know, Mama says it means I’m growing up ... Yeah, she explained everything...”
Long silence while Rafael talked.
“ ... I miss you too ... I know it’s been so long ... Mama says maybe soon we can visit again ... Really? You think so? ... I hope so ... I love you, Papi ... Goodnight...”
I stood in the hallway. Listening.
She’d told him the same day. Wanted to share it with him. Sought his validation.
Not strange. Just a daughter telling her father about growing up.
But something about it made my stomach turn.
Luna at thirteen - Winter:
I walked into the kitchen with her birthday cake. Found her on the phone with Rafael.
She smiled. Held up one finger. One more minute.
I set the cake down. Left.
Heard her voice from the other room.
“Thanks, Papi ... Yes, I love it ... I wish you were here ... I know ... Me too...”
The letters continued. Daily now.
Luna’s shoebox was overflowing. She got a second box.
Three weeks. I hadn’t thought about Rafael in three weeks.
Not sexually. Not romantically. Not even practically.
Just—nothing.
Luna texted him daily. Called him nightly. Lived for his letters.
But me?
I’d gone weeks without missing him. Without wanting him. Without anything.
If Luna needed him so badly, maybe she could have him.
Maybe I was already done.
Luna at thirteen - Spring:
One Saturday afternoon I needed Luna to watch Diego while I showered.
Found her in her room. Door open. Frustrated.
She was holding one of her old t-shirts. Trying to pull it on.
It wouldn’t go past her shoulders.
“This doesn’t fit anymore.”
I looked. The shirt was from last year. Too small now.
“You’ve grown, baby. We’ll get you new clothes.”
“All my shirts are too small.” She sounded upset. Threw the shirt on the bed. “Everything looks weird now.”
She pulled on a hoodie instead. One of mine. Huge on her. Baggy. Hung past her hips.
“I can take you shopping—”
“I don’t want to go shopping.” Her face red. “Can we just order stuff online?”
“We can go this weekend. It’ll be quick.”
“I hate trying things on.” She pulled the hoodie tighter around herself. “Everything either doesn’t fit or looks stupid.”
Not confident. Not admiring herself in the mirror.
Just—frustrated that her body had changed without her permission.
Embarrassed by it.
Wanting to hide it.
“Nothing looks stupid, baby.”
“You don’t have to look at it.”
She left the room. The hoodie swallowing her frame.
A kid whose body had betrayed her by growing up too fast.
Luna at thirteen - Summer:
Luna came out of the bathroom one morning. Towel wrapped around her.
“Mama, can you help me?”
“With what?”
“My bra. The clasp is stuck or something.”
I went into her room. She turned around, held the towel up with one hand.
I worked the clasp. It was twisted. Cheap metal.
“When did you get this?”
“Abuela took me to Target last month. My old ones don’t fit.”
“They don’t?”
“No.” Her voice tight. Embarrassed. “Can we not talk about it?”
I got the clasp fastened.
“There. You’re good.”
“Thanks.”
She pulled a big t-shirt over her head immediately. Quickly. Covering herself.
Then baggy shorts.
Dressed like she wanted to disappear into her clothes.
When had that happened? When had my little girl needed real bras instead of training bras?
I’d been too exhausted to notice.
Too busy with the younger kids to pay attention.
But it had happened.
Gradually. Then all at once.
And Luna seemed as surprised by it as I was.
Uncomfortable in her own skin.
Luna at thirteen - Fall:
Carmen came over one afternoon.
Luna walked through from her room. Heading to the corner store for me.
Tank top—because it was hot. Shorts—because it was summer.
Nothing inappropriate. Normal teenage girl clothes.
But Carmen’s face changed when she saw her.
Luna’s face was still a child’s. Round. Soft. No makeup. Hair in a messy ponytail.
But her body—
The tank top showed what I’d been trying not to notice. The swell of her breasts. The curve of her waist. Her hips wider than they’d been last summer.
She was developing. Fast.
After Luna left, Carmen turned to me.
“She’s getting tall.”
“Yeah.”
“Looks older than thirteen.”
“I know.”
Carmen’s eyes stayed on the door where Luna had disappeared.
“Her face is still so young.”
“I know.”
Long pause.
“But men won’t see her face first.”
My stomach turned.
“Be careful.”
That was all she said.
Then back to chopping vegetables. Back to making dinner. Back to normal.
But I heard what she wasn’t saying.
Luna looked older than thirteen.
She looked like I had at fifteen.
The age I’d been when Rafael raped me.
And Carmen saw it.
Even if I was trying not to.
Luna at fourteen - Winter:
I was thirty. Four kids. Working full-time teaching them at home. Exhausted always.
Luna talked to Rafael daily. Read his letters obsessively.
“Mama, did you know Papi used to play guitar?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“He says when he gets out, he’ll teach me.”
“That’s nice, baby.”
I wasn’t really listening.
One night Luna was on the phone with Rafael. I passed by her room. Door cracked.
Heard her voice. Soft. Vulnerable.
“I just feel like ... like Mama doesn’t really see me anymore. She’s so tired all the time.”
Rafael’s response too quiet to hear.
“I know she’s doing her best. But you ... you actually listen. You ask me questions. You care about what I think.”
More murmuring from Rafael.
“Yeah. You’re the only one who really understands me.”
I stood in the hallway. Should’ve felt hurt. Should’ve felt something.
But I just felt—tired.
She was right. I didn’t have energy to really see her. To listen for hours. To engage with her thoughts and feelings.
Rafael did.
And part of me was grateful.
Luna at fourteen - Late Winter:
Luna was helping me make dinner one night.
Reached across the counter for the salt shaker.
Knocked over a glass of water with her elbow.
“Ugh! Sorry, Mama!”
Water everywhere. Spreading across the counter.
“It’s okay, baby.” I grabbed paper towels.
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