Chapter 22

Life is never without bumps in the road. I was reminded of this when picking up Sia from her sleepover at Lara’s. Outwardly bubbly and peppering me with questions about how my date with Mrs. Sanderson had gone, trying to interrogate me for details I wouldn’t reveal, I noticed her eyes. Sia could hide nothing from me and those mismatched eyes were troubled.

Knowing from experience not to press, I waited patiently for her to mull, let her thoughts ferment until she couldn’t remain silent. I wasn’t disappointed.

While watching television on Sunday night, Sia suddenly asked, “Did you like being with Mrs. Sanderson more than being with me?”

Her question shouldn’t have caught me by surprise, given her endorsement of the relationship. But, I’d forgotten Sia was a fourteen-year-old. Mentally mature, she was still a young girl with insecurities, jealousies; feelings intensified by hormones, puberty. I wasn’t going to set off a competition between Sia and Alia. That would bring nothing but grief.

Glancing at her, noticing how she was looking at the television and not at me, a sure sign the question was serious, I answered. “Do you like strawberry ice cream more than mint chocolate chip?”

“Yeah.”

Well that didn’t work. I tried another analogy. “Do you like your iPhone better than your clothes.”

“No.” She glanced at me. “Dad, why not just tell me what you’re trying to say? I’m not stupid.”

Clearly not. “Alright. What I was trying to say is that sometimes you can like two different things equally as much. They’re just different. That’s how I feel about being with you and Mrs. Sanderson.”

“Okay.”

That was that. Subject closed. But, that night, Sia arrived in bed wearing a soft pink nightshirt. She cuddled close. As I kissed her, I recognized something else. My daughter was insecure and wanted to be desired, wanted me to want her, work for her; her way of reinforcing her appeal to me. She wanted to be pursued, loved, cherished, and assert her ownership of me, something she’d ceded only temporarily to Alia.

I knew it beyond a doubt when she responded to my caress, when I discovered she was naked under the nightshirt, when I explored, and murmured how much I loved her. She snuggled close and inundated me with adoring sighs of delight, my love growing even stronger. Making love to Sia was slow and gentle, a delicate penetration, soft thrusts, her pussy gripping me so tightly. She murmured, her kisses sweet and soft, gentle loving, not passion-inflamed. And Sia’s climax was wonderful, a soft groan in my ear, a whisper, “Daddy,” a slender body shuddering in ecstasy, her arms hugging me possessively, her pussy tightly milking me with every wave of bliss. My orgasm was soft, too. My erection swelled and, to the sounds of my sweet girl climaxing, my cock pulsed, semen spurting, beautiful release. I came gently, fucking Sia slowly, relishing every pulse of cum, every wave of pleasure, such sweet release, and every sexy sound from her. I came completely and, when we relaxed in that magical post-orgasmic peace, I was still inside her. I was still inside her when we fell asleep.

For the next couple of months life settled. The deceptive bastard that life is, I was lulled: busy with work and Sia’s outside interests; at the vagaries of a teenage girl’s sexual rhythms; and, occasionally, dating Alia. Spring was being displaced by early summer, heat slowly building, nature blossoming, flourishing.

May was a challenge, my world rocked yet again.

On a mundane Tuesday morning Sia emerged, dressed for school, and complained she didn’t feel well. That night she was snarky and short tempered, showing impatience at my jibes. The next morning she announced she’d gotten her period and yelled at me, “It’s NOT funny, Dad!” when I made fun of her mood.

Over breakfast, she was glued to her iPhone, ignoring me. I apologized for my behavior, even though I enjoyed ribbing her.

Sia, with her blue and hazel eyes, studied me. She observed, “You’re not sorry at all.” Glancing down at her iPhone, she said, “It says here that taking the pill makes your boobs bigger. I think it has. Have you noticed?”

Shaking my head with amusement, I informed her, “No. I haven’t noticed.”

“I think I’d like bigger boobs.”

“You’re still growing. There’s hope yet.” I didn’t want to depress her, but her mother had suffered from small breasts which had not responded to the pill. Only pregnancy had given her what she’d wanted, real tits.

Friday night, as Alia and I sat at a small table in Claudia’s - a Bistro in Montgomery - on one of our dates, I told her about Sia’s mood and her response to my ribbing.

Alia smiled. “I remember the first couple of years of periods. They weren’t regular and the cramps hurt like hell. Tell her exercise and warm compresses help.”

I grinned. “I recommended isolation as the cure. She’d feel better if she stayed in her bedroom. She wasn’t impressed. It’s interesting. You said your periods were’t regular. Sia’s weren’t either. Did you take the pill to regulate them? That’s what our GP did for Sia nine months ago.”

She smiled again. “No. I suffered in silence. I don’t have to worry about periods now.”

“Why not?” I inquired, sipping a glass of house red wine. “By the by, I know a gentleman should never ask a lady, but ... how old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“That means you had Jasmin...”

Alia interrupted, “When I was young.”

Grinning, I nodded. “So, how can you have menopause? You’re way too young.”

Alia glanced down at her plate and back up, her dark exotic eyes studying me intently. “I’m not sure there’s a delicate way to put this, Philip...”

“No,” I gasped quietly, leaning forward. “You’re... ?”

Alia nodded. She touched the back of my hand. “Eight weeks. I’m so sorry. It seems birth control isn’t one hundred percent guaranteed.”

Around us, the quiet chatter of other small groups filled the silence between us. I took a large sip of wine, studying Alia. No wonder she glowed. Still ... pregnant?

Was it my right to judge or demand? Was it my right to influence her?

Reaching across the small round table, I took her cold hand in mine giving it a squeeze.

“So, have you decided what you want to do?”

“I was going to ask you what you’d prefer,” she replied.

“It’s not my body, Alia. It’s your choice. Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.”

She smiled slightly. “If it was your decision, what would you do?”

My immediate reaction was abort the baby. How would Alia find the strength and time to handle a child? Selfishly, raising Sia had been a full-time occupation. But...

I thought of Sia; the charm of her as a child, her cuteness, the endless light she brought into my life, her discovery of the world and the gift she’d given me - to rediscover the wonders of life through her eyes, the love she gave me, the frustration, the angst at times. Having Sia made me feel alive. She was everything.

Alia’s stocking foot rubbed my leg under the table. “Penny for your thoughts?”

I saw the hope in Alia’s deep dark eyes.

With a soft squeeze of Alia’s hand, I answered, “I think we’d make a beautiful baby.”

Alia’s eyes teared up, glistening, despite her pleased smile. “I was hoping you’d say that, Philip, because I think so too.”

Alia glowed with happiness. We talked about the inevitable shock to our small, somewhat conservative town and debated keeping it a secret. We completely agreed we should tell the holy terrors together. Then, I suggested we should get married.

Alia shook her head. “I’ve been there once and it was more than enough. But if you’re worried about...”

I shut her up with a kiss. “I’m not.” Glancing at my watch, I added, “Perhaps we should go and face our daughters tonight. No. Wait. Can we hold off until Sia’s finished her period?”

Alia laughed. “Coward! Let’s go.”

On the drive home, a thought struck me. “I’m a bit worried now. Sia’s on the pill. If you can get pregnant while taking the pill, I don’t want to risk it with her. Is there a safer method of birth control?”

“I wasn’t on the pill, Philip. I was using a cervical cap. I think you can relax with Sia.”

Huh. So that’s why she disappeared into the bathroom so often.

Alia seemed excited about announcing her condition. I felt not quite excitement but something more akin to trepidation.

It didn’t go as badly as I thought it might. Alia had the girls sit on the couch - after clearing up their mess and turning the music down - and made her announcement.

Two girls squealed with delight, jumped up and swarmed Alia. Clearly, I had little or no role in the celebration, despite having contributed to Alia’s condition.

Eventually, Jasmin came over and gave me a tight hug. “I’m so happy for you two,” she said, adding, “Are you and Mom getting married?” Her exotic oval eyes lit up. “You’ll be my dad!”

“Jasmin!” Alia said.

Jasmin just grinned at me, not affected in the least by her mother’s objection.

Sia looked at me and smiled. She came over and hugged me, her face pressed to my chest. “I’m happy for you, Dad.”

But she wasn’t. Uncertainty shadowed her eyes.

We agreed to a celebration dinner the next night, Saturday. We’d go out: Tex-Mex Bar and Grill here we come.

In bed, Sia cuddled. She seemed satisfied with a couple of soft kisses. I waited. Nothing.

Saturday passed, my daughter outwardly happy, but I knew her too well. This time it was taking her longer to process whatever was troubling her. I had a feeling I knew what it was, but had to wait her out.

Saturday dinner was a riot. Sia and Jasmin were full of stories about friends and school, jesting with each other as they consumed Kansas City dry rub ribs. Sia had been her usual self, carefully sniffing the ribs before smiling and nodding her approval, only to wrinkle her nose at the ketchup she’d poured for her fries. “This smells hinky.” Glancing at the label, she’d frowned. “Hunts isn’t ketchup!” She’d pestered the waitress for real ketchup and promptly ignored her fries when Heinz wasn’t available.