First and foremost, big props to @bridgetrose for her excellent story,
Daddy's Muse
. The unique premise of that story, where the daughter accidentally finds that her dad wrote erotic stories, directly inspired this story. Although the premise is similar, our two stories go in totally different directions. I hope you enjoy mine, and I certainly invite you to read @bridgetrose's
Daddy's Muse
, as well as her other excellent works. As for this one, please enjoy. And if you like it, please vote and comment... I read each and every comment, and I appreciate all of them!
Like A Drug
My name is Gillian Tate. Gillian. Not Jill. I hate the name Jill, so I've managed to train everyone in my life not to call me that. My father, however, insists on calling me 'Jilly'. Particularly annoying coming from someone named Jackson.
I enjoyed a very happy childhood. My dad, Jackson Tate was great, while my mother, Marguerite, was a bit more high maintenance. She always wanted more excitement than my father could provide. She was constantly complaining to me about how boring my dad was. He was always the creative type, but when she got pregnant with me at 19, he put his saxophone down and found a boring career that paid well. He became an insurance agent, of all things. Incredibly boring, but quite lucrative. I guess she wasn't happy with the boring things he provided, like a good job, a stable, steadily increasing income, or our comfortable home out in the suburbs where we never wanted for anything.
Still, my mom was like a caged wild animal, yearning to be free. She just wanted more 'excitement.' She loved the idea of not knowing what would happen next. And when there was no drama, she would happily create it. I used to wonder how my dad put up with it. Finally, she created so much drama that it blew up our family. They got divorced when I was sixteen, and despite dad trying everything he could to appease her, it was an ugly and contentious divorce.
The first inkling of trouble started when I was fifteen. My dad had started teaching me to drive. He believed the best way to teach a kid to drive was to start off in housing developments that weren't completed yet. The roads were there, the stop signs were there, all that was missing was traffic. He was right, it worked well. The housing development he chose was about 40 minutes away from our house. One day on the way back I voiced a concern I had.
"Dad? Do you think Mom is cheating on you?"
He was silent for a few minutes before he answered, "No. She's not."
"How can you be sure?"
Again, there was a hesitation. Finally he said, "Because I thought she was. I hired a guy to follow her."
"Ohmygod! You mean like a private investigator or something? Like in the movies?"
He didn't say anything, but just nodded. He seemed ashamed of this, like this was somehow a failure on his part. "Anyway," he continued, "if she is cheating, she is very, very good at it. The guy followed her for a month and every single place she said she was going, she actually went. But he did find out something else. Something worse."
Now I was worried. "She's not cheating, but there's something worse?"
"Yeah," he said. "She does go to a book club. You know those book club meetings are just a gossip fest. My guy recorded her making a lot of awful comments about me. How basically, she doesn't love me, doesn't even like me, she doesn't respect me, how she'd leave but I make too much money."
"Damn," I whisper. "I'm so sorry, dad. That's got to hurt."
He nodded. "It hurts more than if she was actually cheating."
"What are you going to do?"
He just shrugged and focused on the road ahead.
About a month later, a young woman started working in his office. Sasha was only about 20 or 21 years old, much closer to my age than his. Somehow, she and my dad became friends. Work buddies. Mom accused him of trying to get in this girl's pants. Dad insisted she was just a young coworker getting started in the business. Nothing on Earth could convince my mother that they weren't sleeping together.
I managed to meet Sasha without letting her know that Jackson was my father. When I brought up the idea that there could be something romantic, she made a face as if it was the most disgusting thing in the world.
"EEWW!" she said. "No! It's nothing like that! He's old! He's like my dad. He just listens to me, he gives me good advice." I was vaguely insulted by that. I didn't think my dad looked bad at all, and I was younger than she was. But at least she clearly wasn't interested in him like that.
My mother wouldn't believe a word of it. Within the year, they were divorced. She went scorched earth and neither of them could afford to keep the house by themselves. She moved into an apartment complex full of people younger than her. Dad bought a nice but smaller house on the other side of the city, where he wouldn't run into her. I guess mom got her drama.
I stayed with Mom at first, until it was clear I was just in the way of that exciting new life she was trying to start. So I moved in with dad, who was happy to have me. But it wasn't all sunshine and giggles. I was angry with him. Resentful. And for some reason, jealous. Our relationship was frayed and getting worse. Somehow, I blamed him for the divorce and the disintegration of our family. If only he hadn't made friends with some girl young enough to be his daughter. I had been looking forward to escaping to college, but mom's lawyers got most of that. I guess their daughters needed college more.
By this point, I was eighteen. One day I was at the beach with my best friend, Gwen. We were talking about my family woes, because that's pretty much all I talked about at the time. I had mentioned that I was thinking about going to a therapist. She blew an exasperated sigh and said, "Gillian, you don't need a therapist. I can tell you exactly what's wrong!"
"Really? Well what is it? Tell me what's wrong," I said impatiently, not expecting much.
She said, "You're angry because he's your dad. You weren't close to him, and you didn't need him anymore. Your mom didn't need him, either. But he's the kind of guy who has a lot to give. And that girl needed it. You're mad because he treated her like a daughter, not a girlfriend, and you're jealous, because you want to be the only daughter. You're resentful, because how could he treat her like a daughter?! And you're angry at the whole thing because there's nothing you can do about it. You need to understand... the problem here is you. He's done nothing wrong. Hell, I wish an older guy would take a platonic, non-sexual interest in me to help my career out. Anyway, if you look at yourself, you'll realize that's the problem. You don't need a shrink. That'll be 5 cents please."
I was floored. My best friend in the world had just hit me square in the face with some difficult truths. We enjoyed the rest of our day at the beach, but that evening I went home and thought about what she said. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. I hadn't been a horrible daughter to my dad, but I certainly hadn't acted like I needed him. And then this poor little waif comes along, all delicate and needy, sucking up his attention like a sponge. I
was
resentful.
He was no longer in touch with her. Horrified at having broken up a marriage, even inadvertently, she packed up and moved away. Of course, dad helped her with that too. But after she was gone, he never heard from her again. She was gone, and I realized I needed to let it go. And that's what I tried to do. I made it a point to be a better daughter for him, and our relationship flourished as a result. My friend was right.. he just wanted to be needed. My mom didn't need him, and I was acting like I didn't need him either. Once we fixed that, things got much better. With my mom gone, along with all of her drama, and me actively participating in his life again, my dad was happier than I'd ever seen him. I never really been a daddy's girl, but this was as close as I'd ever come.
Since mom burned all my college savings, and I had no scholarship-worthy skills, college was effectively off the table for now. Dad helped with a plan for me to get it done more slowly, but without backbreaking debt. And in the mean time, he helped me find a job that actually paid enough for me to get my own place. Well, almost... he still helped out. But at least I was 90% independent. Then, two years later, COVID claimed my burgeoning career as a casualty, so at 22 years old, I moved back in with Dad. Lucky for us both, he was less affected by the Pandemic, and he has been able to provide for both of us.
*****
A few months later.
Saturday is my dad's one day to sleep in. He finally got up and headed for coffee. I was already there, looking anxious.
"Morning, Jilly. What's wrong?" he asked as he saw my face while pouring his first cup.
I didn't answer right away, hesitating before replying, "Dad, I have to ask you something, but go ahead and finish your first cup of coffee."
