My last time sitting on daddy’s lap.

I grew up on a farm, I was home-schooled, sheltered, and my only friend lived about a 20-minute walk from my house. I spent most of my time doing chores and work books with my mother. She was not a happy woman; she was distant and cold most of the time. I don’t know if she was always like that, but she seemed less and less happy, the older I got. One year my mother left us for a short time. That year was different. My father was drinking a lot, obviously missing my mother. He spent most nights by the tv alone, I would cuddle with him sometimes to keep him company. I felt lonely too.

One day while he was watching the hockey game, downing his 7th or 8th beer, he looked sad. So I went to sit on his lap as I had many times in the past. He hadn’t shaved in weeks; his beard was thick and stained yellow with beer.

“Hey there, come to catch a game with your old man?” He stroked my long dark-brown hair and smiled.

“Who’s winning?” I asked and then leaned against his chest. He hadn’t been wearing a shirt, his hairy chest tickled my cheek a little. His hand moved from my hair to my hip, he rubbed it a little; pushing my already too-short nightie up over my pink cotton panties. I felt a little shy, but he was just daddy and he couldn’t see them from that angle anyways, so I didn’t care.

“The team in red.” He said.