"Veronica," dad called up the stairs, "are you in or out tonight?"
"In." I called back as I struggled into a dress more than a size too small for me.
I'd known that the dress was too small when I had taken it out of my cupboard; I'd bought it when I was sixteen and I had filled out a little in certain areas since then. I had also got a bit taller, thank God, and the dress, short when I'd bought it, was now a little too short for everyday wear, but it was just fine for wearing at home, well sort of. My boobs felt a little crushed as the dress finally settled into place and I could feel my bra being pressed into my skin. Sighing I took the dress off, took off my bra then put the dress back on again, after a bit of a struggle it was in place and though it still crushed my boobs I did not have to put up with the discomfort of my bra digging into me. Looking at myself in the mirror I frowned, there was a very prominent set of lines where my panties ran, reaching under the short hem I pulled my panties down and smoothed the material again. It was much better, but I knew that sooner or later I'd have to throw the dress out, it was getting too damned small.
Tossing my panties on the bed I gave myself one last look in the mirror, I liked what I saw, even if I did think it myself I was a very attractive eighteen year old and I smiled at myself before turning to leave the bedroom. As I headed downstairs I felt delightfully wicked with no underwear on, the tight dress rubbed on my skin with every breath I took and I could feel my nipples hardening from the sensations of being crushed and rubbed by the silky material.
"Hi dad." I greeted my father as I entered the kitchen.
"Oh, hi," he grinned over his shoulder distractedly, "be a dear and drain the peas for me."
Mum was away at yet another of her conferences; that was the problem with having a career woman for a mother, you never saw her and as I had that thought I wondered for the first time how my father felt about it. He always seemed cheerful, yet it had never occurred to me that he might miss mum while she was away. Then I wondered whether dad had worked once, if he had had a career and how had he been the one that ended up at home instead of mum. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for equality as long as I got the bigger share. Smiling at my thoughts I drained the peas then laid the table while dad dished up our meal. Dad was a good cook and I much preferred his cooking to my mother's any day, but whenever she was around she insisted on doing the cooking; the clearing up and everything else dad did.
"Dad," I said as I tucked into dinner, "did you ever have a career?"
"What a strange question." he laughed, "Yes, yes I did once upon a time."
"Why did you give it up?" I asked around a mouthful of food.
"I've told you before," dad grinned, "it's rude to talk with your mouth full."
I got the impression that my father was avoiding the question and waited until my mouth was empty before asking it again. My father looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Why the interest all of a sudden?" he asked in return.
"Just curious." I grinned, "So why did you give up your career?"
"If you must know I gave it up to look after you." He sighed.
"But didn't mum stay home?" I asked.
"She was earning more than I was at the time," dad sighed looking down at his plate, "we agreed that it would be best if I gave up work to look after you."
There was probably a lot more to it than that, mum had probably insisted that dad stay at home was probably nearer the truth; my mother had quite a forceful character and was very used to getting her own way in most things. I had a sudden picture of my mother in bed with dad ordering him around like a puppet while they made love; the image made me laugh and my father looked across the table curiously.
"It's nothing dad," I grinned stifling another laugh, "I just had a thought is all."
Dad sighed and went back to pushing his food around on his plate and it dawned on me that although I had almost finished my food my father had barely touched a thing; there was something wrong, even I could see that. I loved my father a lot more than I did my mother, probably because he had always been there for me, sorting out my cuts and bruises as cheerily as he helped me with my problems; mum was more of an occasional visitor and when he was upset about something, which was rare, I felt upset too. While I helped my father clear away the dishes and wash up I tried to think of a tactful way of asking what was upsetting him, but I'm afraid tact is definitely not one of my qualities and I decided to just come out with it when we went into the living room after the washing up was done.
Ten minutes later we were sitting down in the living room with a glass of wine and a long evening ahead of us, taking a sip of my wine I looked at my father over the rim of my glass. He looked awfully depressed about something yet as soon as he sensed that I was watching him he looked my way and smiled.
"What's up dad?" I asked bluntly, "And don't tell me that there's nothing wrong, you barely ate a thing and you've been sitting there with a face a mile long."
"Tactful as ever, eh Ronnie?" dad sighed, "If you must know I think you're mother is having an affair."
Mum was the last person I could imagine having an affair, but obviously dad had that impression and my father was not one to leap to conclusions, there had to be more to it.
"What makes you think that?" I asked.