"You have to admit it, Dad, you are not happy here either."
"I'm happy you're my daughter now, that's enough."
"It is not," Rhonda said, "You deserve better than this and you know it. I deserve better than this."
"She had a pretty rough childhood, you know. It's not all her fault," I said defending her mother.
"Dad, you just carried her passed out drunk ass upstairs after she was mean as shit to both of us, again. She does this all the time."
"Well I don't deserve that I guess," I admitted.
"Forget about me for a minute, I'm eighteen and I can finally get out of here soon, but you - I mean you do everything for her. And what does she do for you?"
My stepdaughter did have a point. I married her mother when she was ten and things were good for a while, but the closer Rhonda and I grew, the meaner Suzanne got to both of us.
"She's jealous of me, plain and simple, Dad," Rhonda said. "All she ever did was bank on her looks and as soon as I started getting pretty she treated us both different. It's bullshit."
"You didn't 'get pretty', you went from pretty little girl to beautiful young woman," I said, agreeing with her about the problem. "Your mother is the most jealous woman I have ever met in my life. But she should be not be jealous of you."
Rhonda had grown into the hotter version of her mother. Suzanne was pretty with an ok body for her age but she was 42 and didn't take very good care of herself. She had lost some of her tone, she looked tired, smoking and drinking too much had taken a toll on her looks and she owed her blonde hair to a good colorist and $200 dollars of my money every month or so.
Rhonda could model underwear for Victoria's Secret without makeup on.
"Well, you deserve better, Dad. I wish she would ...you know ...be nicer to you."
"She's nice enough when she isn't drinking," I said.
"She doesn't put out, though, does she?"
"Rhonda Marie!" I said.
"Does she?" Rhonda pressed.
"We have sex ...sometimes."
"How often?"
I'm sure I was looking as uncomfortable about this conversation as I felt at this point but my stepdaughter just stayed calm and kept her piercing blue eyes fixed and waited.
"Dad. How. often?"
I looked away from her. "Eight, maybe ten times ...a year?"
"That's fucking crazy Dad. The way you treat her she should be putting out every chance she gets. She doesn't even work, fuck! That's way worse than I thought."
"It's fine," I said turning the show off we weren't watching anyway. I kissed her on the head. "You're very sweet, Baby. Thanks for caring about me, but this is my problem. We'll get you out of here soon and I'll always be here for you. I'm going to bed."
As I walked up the stairs I looked back at her and she smiled, "We're not done talking about this. I'm here for you, too!"