I sat at the front of the church, my eyes fixed on the floor in front of me like a guilty child in the principal's office. I could feel the stares of funeral guests behind me burning into my back. A slideshow of photos of my late wife Rachel played on the screen at the front of the church, each one seeming to glare at me accusingly. At the front of the church, standing beside her closed coffin, was a large photo of her, showing off her six-month pregnant belly, a reminder of both innocent lives whose deaths I was responsible for.
It had been three weeks since my wife, home early from her Bible study, had walked in on me dumping a thick load of incestuous cum onto our youngest daughter's breasts. I remember that terrible moment so vividly. Time seemed to slow down as we locked eyes while my cock continued to spurt. It was so quiet I could actually hear the ropes of cum splatter against Tatiana's skin.
She said nothing, just bolted out of the house and drove off in the decades-old car she'd inherited from her father Robert. I could hear her tires squeal in the driveway. That was the last time I ever saw her. A police officer came to our door to inform us of her death. To my shame, my first reaction was not grief or guilt, just relief that my affair with my daughter would not be revealed.
That nineteen-year-old daughter sat to my right now, holding my hand. I glanced to my right and met her eyes. She took my hand and gave me a comforting smile.
I couldn't help but admire her beauty. Her brown skin showed her mother's half-Latina heritage, but that was where the similarities ended. Even when pregnant, Rachel had been a slender, bony woman, all edges and hard angles. Tati's young body, on the other hand, was blooming into a beautiful curvy hourglass figure. Her black funeral dress, while modest, couldn't hide her beautiful curves of her breasts and hips.
Beyond her sat her two older siblings, twenty-four-year-old Vincent and twenty-seven-year-old Allison. Allison had a job and an apartment in another city but Vincent had just graduated and would be moving back home until he could find work, giving Tati and I even less time alone together. I wasn't looking forward to that.
After the service and the burial, we returned home. Vincent adjourned to his bedroom and buried himself in games and music. Allison stayed downstairs, stress eating. I went upstairs and stood outside the room we'd prepared for the baby, complete with a crib and a playpen.
As I looked into the room of a baby who would never be born, I felt ashamed of my lack of sadness. I only felt relief. I had emotionally moved on from my marriage to Rachel months ago. My daughter Tati was more my wife than she was now.
I felt a soft, small, familiar hand take mine. I saw Tati next to me, taking my arm and resting her head on my shoulder.
"What are you thinking, Daddy?"
I only gave her a sad smile, unwilling to voice the shameful thoughts in my head. How could I tell her that I wasn't sad that her mother and unborn brother had died?
"Come on. I think we both know what we need." And she pulled me into the master bedroom, locking the door behind us.
