Lisa was my oldest daughter. As kids go she fit the pattern: oldest would be the quiet thinking type, second oldest the trouble maker and so on. She had just turned 15 going on 26, she had the looks of her mother: her height and hair color, her build, even her sense of humor. Looking at her sometimes I felt nostalgic.
She saw me looking at her one time and commented, “You look sad dad.”
“Yeah, a little.”
“You miss mom don’t you.” She knew me.
“Yeah I do honey,” I confessed, “you remind me of her at times.”
Lisa came over and gave me a hug, a warm, tight, close hug, “I miss her too dad.” We held each other and I realized it was something else I missed – the closeness, the physical affection. I was suddenly aware of her breasts pressed against me. I didn’t back off, maybe I was being selfish, but it felt good.
Lisa had ‘adoted’ the mother role in the family since Jennifer had died, she made sure the younger kids got the things they needed if I wasn’t around. She helped me plan things and even sat in to help balance the checkbook and consider our expenses. It wasn’t past me to put my hand over hers and give it a squeeze when we were close together like that or to remind her how much of a help she was. When I could I tried to give her some extra liberties or more allowance to make up for the extra things she was doing instead of being a teenager.