Even after three months, it didn't even let up. The scene was almost always the same: late into the night, Tammy, my 23 year old daughter, would break down into uncontrollable sobs and litanies of regret and self pity. Her husband of less than one year, Michael, was killed in an automobile accident by a drunk driver. There was nothing her mother and I could do but comfort her in her hour of need.

We took turns, Mary and I. Some nights she would spend with Tammy, neither of us leaving her alone for too long for fear of her falling into a depression. It was the very least we could do. She was so sad. So tragically sad and alone. Tammy was young and very beautiful. She had a whole lifetime ahead of her. Of course, imparting this wisdom brought on more tears.

In the past few weeks, I found myself volunteering more often for the night shift because of work and my wife took the day shift. Tammy took it all in good order. The routine with me was dinner, maybe a movie on TV, good conversation, or just sitting and being quiet. It got to be an actual pleasant and comfortable experience for me, and I'm sure, for her. After a hard day at work here I was spending a quiet evening with a new and lovely young woman, full of questions and wonderment. It boosted my ego to no end. Could any guy fault me for that?

Tonight was no different, or so I thought. We ate dinner and settled onto her couch in the livingroom. We shared a bottle of wine and clinked glasses at each round. It was rote, but we enjoyed it nonetheless. Nothing on the television interested us until a documentary on children. Then Tammy began her nightly cry.

Children. " That's what I never got a chance to give Michael," she said tearfully.

" You were married for less than a year, honey. You were both so young; how can you expect to have mothered kids when you were both still enjoying your youth?"

" But I wanted kids, Daddy. And Mike did too. I wanted to give him kids, many kids. At least I would have something to remember him by, to carry on his name."

" You'll always remember him, baby. He will always live inside you--inside all of us." I pulled her to me and she rested her head on my chest. She continued to cry as I took our drinks away. Then I ran my fingers through her long brown hair, gently stroked her face, and murmured comforting words. She was lulled into an almost dream-like state.

I could feel the heat of her body so close to mine, the soft contours and youthful firmness. Her hair smelled as sweet as spring and I drank up her fragrance with an ever-growing and dangerous mixture of forbidden emotions and fatherly love. The forbidden was winning out and the ever-growing grew to unprecedented heights. This is your own daughter! my head screamed. But visions of her youthful beauty, tainted by alcoholic influences, and her body nearly melted to mine, caused an infernal mental and physical battle to rage within me. This is your daughter, flesh of your flesh, product of your loins. And the more I thought of fresh, the harder I grew.

My stroking of her face traveled to her shoulders and side. The gentle caresses turned to a more ardorous insistence. It was as if I were warming her from the chill in the room. There was no chill. The room was burning hot, as it was inside me. Your own daughter! I shifted and cleared my throat in a weak attempt to dislodge this unholy union. She stirred and looked dreamily up at me. Then smiled for a brief second. I looked down at her parted lips, so inviting. I kissed her forehead, her face, then slowly, softly, her lips.

She returned my kiss and never moved away. Our touch lingered, my lips burning into her soul. When we broke, she stared up at me, her breathing ragged. I could feel our hearts pounding in time.

I whispered, " Tammy, I love you."

" I love you, too."

I looked down and accidentally saw cleavage. " Maybe more so than I'm supposed to."

She continued to stare at me in girlish wide-eyed wonder. Her breathing was uneven but she said nothing. I tilted her chin up to me and slowly kissed her again, this time a bit more insistent. Jesus, what was I doing? Our lips lingered for a bit and then we separated. This time, she took in a deep breath and let out a low sigh. She stood up. She offered her hand and I took it. We were now standing in her livingroom, looking deeply at each other.

" Maybe I should go," I said.

She shook her head slowly. Then, hand-in-hand, she led me through the darkened hallways and into her bedroom. It was a walk in some fantasy, long buried feelings of forbidden desires. My young daughter brought us to the master bedroom as she turned on a single lamp. The room was romantically dim.