AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is fiction. They are not real people. I had a tough time deciding what category to post this in, but settled on this one.
When the door slammed upstairs, Bob reached for the remote and turned up the volume a little. He'd heard it enough times to know that the shouting was only going to escalate from here; it always infuriated Joanne when Tiffany, her daughter, slammed the door on her. Of course, Tiffany knew that too, so she'd always slam it when Joanne was beginning to get angry, and send her over the edge. He swore they must love fighting, they did it so much. They'd been at it for over an hour already. He knew he was in for a long one.
At age forty he was tired of the fighting, all he wanted after a hard week's work was to come home and relax a little, was that so much to ask? Not for the first time he wondered if it had been a mistake to marry Joanne. It had been great when they were dating, and he'd fallen in love, and at first the marriage had been wonderful. Sure, ups and downs, but that was expected, and they worked through it. Even now, when she wasn't fighting with Tiffany she really was a wonderful person, and a great, loving wife. Sure the sex had dropped off considerably; truth be told it was pretty infrequent these days, Still, he admonished himself for thinking it was a mistake. He liked being married, liked coming home to a family after coming home to an empty house all those years.
He'd married late; met Joanne when he was thirty-four and she was thirty, and Tiffany was only fourteen. They married a year later, and moved into his house, big enough for a family, but it had been only him for so long. He'd bought it when he was only twenty-four, working his way into his own contracting business. His business was good, the house was paid off. And though he'd had several girlfriends in his twenties, and more than several relationships, he'd been too busy working to apply himself, and so had remained alone. With his business established in his thirties, and all his friends married and starting families, he started looking, and dated a few times before meeting Joanne.
She's been divorced from her second husband for two years when they met, but it was her independent spirit and toughness that drew him to her. She'd gotten pregnant at seventeen, married Tiffany's dad, but that had fallen apart within a year, and he split. She raised her alone for a few years, met another guy and married him, but that lasted only five years until he left for another woman.
Maybe his mistake had not been getting married, he thought, absentmindedly watching the television, but marrying a woman who had two failed marriages already. Again he scolded himself; how could he think the woman he loved was a mistake? Ashamed of his thought, he told himself that the divorces weren't a problem, that there was nothing wrong with their marriage. It was just a rough patch.
Sure, the voice in his head told him. A rough patch that started four years ago and has only gotten worse. And shows no signs of getting better. And you know it. He sighed. The arguments had begun when Tiffany was sixteen. He'd never known her as a little girl, had met her as a teen, and watched her grow into a beautiful young woman. He tried to treat her with respect, but not as a pushover, and she seemed to respond well. They had a good relationship for a girl who grew up without a dad and a guy who had been alone for a long time. They seemed to understand each other, and they made the best of the situation, trying not to step on each other, but not avoiding either. He loved his stepdaughter, and she had, he thought, grown into a fine young woman.
Joanne didn't share his rosy view. She'd begun criticizing Tiffany early in their marriage, for her hair style, her music, her clothes, her friends. Only a little at first, but not gently, and in front of Bob, which made him uncomfortable, and frankly, he disagreed with her critiques. He thought she dressed and acted the way girls her age dressed and acted, that's all. To his mind, it wasn't what Tiff was doing; it was Jo's opinion of it that created the disagreements. And the disagreements began to become more frequent.
Tiff had pushed back, as you would expect a teenager to do. By the time she was seventeen she was resisting, yelling back, and trading insults with her mother. At the time Bob had admired how much they looked alike, both petite, full lips, small nose, big round blue eyes. But when they argued they even acted the same; defensive, lashing out in anger, saying things you could never take back, flailing hands, storming around the house and screaming. The first few major blowouts had really caught him off guard. Arguing was one thing, but full-force gale warning uncontrolled explosions were scary. But then they became more frequent, and sadly, he got used to it. It was their relationship: Joanne hated everything her daughter thought, said, and did, and Tiffany resented her mother's criticism and attempts to control her.
And so they fought. Repeatedly. Endlessly. Some fights were short but white-hot, nearly coming to blows, and he'd had to step in. Others would simmer for days and then boil over suddenly, maintaining a heated exchange sometimes for twenty-four hours.
Over time Bob learned a couple of things. First he learned that Joanne would always try to get him to agree with her, to endorse her opinion, even though he rarely did. He would try to agree with her motivations, at least as she stated them, but he didn't agree with her opinions and confrontational attacks. Second, he learned that afterwards, Tiffany would seek him out, and solicit his understanding and opinion. She knew she was rebellious, and she expressed her dismay at fighting with her mother, but she couldn't help herself when Jo started in on her, and she'd lose control. And third, he had learned that there were times that he had to step in, and separate them. Sometimes, after the door slamming, things would get completely out of control, names were called, things were thrown, and he had to break them up, diffuse the hostilities and become the peacemaker, however short-lived the peace might be.
Listening to the raised voices upstairs, he suspected that this would be one of those times. Tiffany had it coming this time. He and Joanne had gone out for the night last night, and Jo had warned her not to have people at the house, and of course an argument had ensued. Tiffany had defiantly said she would do what she wanted, she was twenty years old, and Jo couldn't control her. Bob had no idea if Tiff had planned to have people over or if she did it simply because Jo told her not to. But when they got home there were drunken party remnants all over, spilled beer, empty cups, just a general mess, and Tiffany was passed out in her room with two other girls. Bob had sent Jo to bed steaming, and woke Tiffany's friends and drove them home. They were pretty drunk, and pretty hot, and he thought they were kind of flirting with him. When he got home Jo was asleep. He looked in on his stepdaughter before going to bed.
She was wearing a t-shirt and tight little shorts, and she looked peaceful, and pretty, and, like her friends, he thought, pretty hot. Hell, he thought, she was twenty; she was supposed to be hot. He watched her sleep, saw her chest rising and falling, her young breasts stretching the shirt, her nipples hinting beneath the fabric. The shorts were pulled up into her crotch, and he felt a little stirring as his eyes traced the outline of her pussy. Not for the first time he admired her sexiness, then caught himself, and left the room, scolding himself silently for thinking of his stepdaughter that way.
This morning he awakened before Joanne, slipped on a pair of sweatpants over his boxers, and headed to the kitchen. Tiffany was there already, pouring a cup of coffee. She was in a towel, fresh from the shower, and her wet hair hung in straggles, giving her a sexy, not so innocent look. She started as he came in.
"Oh, Bob, sorry, I didn't know you were awake," she said, apologizing for the towel. They had strict rules about dressing in the house.
"It's okay," he mumbled, remembering her breasts and crotch last night, wondering what she looked like under the towel, then chasing the thought away.
"Coffee?"
"Please, yes," he answered, and sat at the table. She took a mug from the cabinet, her back to him, and he watched as the towel crept almost to the bottom of her ass, exposing her thighs. He inhaled suddenly and hoped she didn't notice. She had great legs, even though she was only two inches taller than her mother, at 5'2", and though he'd seen them before, in bathing suits and such, seeing them like this, accidentally exposed in her towel, naked and clean from her shower, was stimulating. She brought the coffee to the table, and sat across from him, one hand holding her towel closed at her chest. They sipped silently, and then she spoke.
"I'm sorry, Bob."
