by Karin Halle
Life just isn’t fair, I thought.
Of course, death is even worse.
I arrived home from work a little earlier than usual, calling out to let my fourteen-year-old daughter know I was there. As it was only the two of us, I was trying to spend as much time with her as possible, having cut my work schedule down to only half days.
It was the middle of the afternoon, but Larissa no longer attended school; doing so would have been pointless. For a while, we tried to pretend that everything was normal, but that simply didn’t work, despite everyone’s best efforts.
The cold, hard truth was that my daughter’s diagnosis meant that ‘normal’ was no longer a possibility.
A few months earlier, Larissa had fainted several times at school, and our family doctor referred us to a neurologist. The neurologist had Larissa come in for some scans, which revealed that she had a brain tumor. Then the news got even worse: inoperable, terminal, six or so months at most.
At first, I tried to convince myself that the doctors had got it wrong, all of them. But they hadn’t.
There had been no way to hide it from her friends, who were all anxious to know that she was okay, and were all gutted when they were told that she was anything but. And the school had to be informed as well; the staff needed to know about the health issues of students, especially one who could blackout at any time.
After intense discussion, it was decided that Larissa should be excused from attending school on medical grounds. She didn’t need the stress of studying, which might even worsen her condition. So she turned in her textbooks, cleaned out her locker, and came home for good.
At first, my daughter’s friends made a point of stopping in to see her, but that soon became awkward for everyone. Larissa quickly realised that she had no interest in sharing gossip about which boy was trying to chat up so-and-so, or in hearing the latest stupid utterance from some teacher that had the entire class in stitches. So her friends found it hard to talk to her, and their visits became less frequent. Not wanting to leave Larissa completely isolated, they began to keep in touch through tweets and emails, and Larissa could decide for herself how to respond to those.
After greeting my daughter, I changed out of my office clothes and put on something comfortable, then went to Larissa’s room to ask her about her day – how she was feeling; what she’d been doing. She was, as usual, sitting at her desk, a paperback propped up in front of her.
“How are you, sweetie?”
“I didn’t sleep too well. Actually, I didn’t sleep much at all.”
“Oh, Larissa,” I exclaimed and knelt beside my daughter, wrapping both arms around her. “Were you in pain? Were you worried or anything? Was it…”
“No… nothing like that, Mum,” Larissa interrupted. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
That hardly eased my concern. “Are you sure? You have to tell me. Do you need me to call Dr. Chapman? He said to call him if you deteriorated at all.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Mum, I haven’t deteriorated. I just had a bad night.”
“You know what you were told: report any change in your condition. You can’t take any chances!”
“It’s nothing to do with my condition. And it wouldn’t make any difference anyway! You know that.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “Don’t talk that way!” My desperation was evident.
“Mum, it’s true! You know nothing will make a difference! Nothing at all!” she replied with a ferocity that caused me to sob.
Larissa was immediately sorry for her sharp response. She knew I was only worried, devastated with frustration that nothing I could do would help my daughter.
The diagnosis was the worst possible. We’d been given the ghastly news that Larissa would not survive through the end of the year. And it was already April. Her birthday had been in March, and there would not be another. Several specialists had been consulted, and all had concurred. There was no cure, not even a treatment.
“Mum, I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how you feel.”
“It’s not how I feel. It’s how you feel. You’re the one who’s sick.” I took a breath and a moment to compose myself. “I don’t know how you can be so calm about this. It’s horrible.”
She gave a sad shrug. “Guess I’m just resigned to it.”
The mood was somber for a few minutes, then we recomposed ourselves and had our usual chat about nothing much.
Then she took a deep breath. “Mum, I’ve been thinking,” she began, her tone surprisingly casual. I made an ‘uh-huh’ sound to encourage her to continue, then she blurted out in a single breath, “I want to have sex before I die!”
“What?”
Perhaps thinking that I hadn’t heard properly, she said, “Mum, I want to know what it’s like to have sex. While I still can.”
Of course, I’d heard her; I most certainly had heard her! I was just having difficulty processing it. My first reply was, “Oh, no, no. You’re way too young to think about things like that. You’re only fourteen!”
“And I’m not going to get to fifteen!”
“Don’t say that! Don’t even think it! They’re making breakthroughs every day,” I pointed out, all the while knowing that the odds weren’t at all in my daughter’s favour.
She already understood that, of course. “Yeah, sure… but there’s practically no chance that any of those breakthroughs will help me, not in the time I have left.”
For a moment I’d forgotten about how this talk had begun; I was far more involved in boosting my little girl’s confidence. “There’s always hope! Never give up hoping… for a miracle, if that’s what it takes.”
“And that’s all there is. Hope for a miracle. Lots of people hope for miracles; most of ‘em don’t get one.” She paused for a moment, then added, “That’s why I want to have sex – in case there’s no miracle.”
Back to that again. And I was still struggling with the whole idea of it. “You’re only fourteen,” I repeated. “That’s under the age of consent. You have to be sixteen! You aren’t old enough!”
Larissa’s voice was filled with despair. “I’m never going to be old enough! And I’ve never even kissed a boy… or a girl! I won’t ever get to finish school, or go to uni, or get a job! I won’t get to fall in love; I won’t get married and have a family… I – I won’t get to do anything.” Her passion must have all been used up, because her next words were spoken in the saddest tone I’ve ever heard her use. “It’s just… I don’t want to die without knowing what it’s like to – to have sex. Real sex.”
I was surprised by Larissa’s offhand suggestion that she was thinking about both girls and boys as potential love partners, but kept that to myself. After all, I’d fooled around with girls a time or two when I was around her age. Instead, I voiced a different objection that came to mind. “Look, sweetheart, sex isn’t just a physical thing; I mean, there’s pleasure in it, but it’s ever so much better when you’re with someone you truly love.”
“Well, that’s no help,” she said, falling into a sulk. “Nobody loves me.”
“That’s not true! I love you,” I said – completely missing the point, but this crazy notion of Larissa’s had me fumbling for whatever I could think of to talk her out of it. “And – and your friends, they love you….”
“Big deal,” she said, frowning. “All I know is, I want to have sex, to see for myself what it’s like. Some of the girls at school have done it. And they said it was great, and I want to have that experience.”
“Some of them are probably lying, you know.”
“Yeah, I guess. But not all of them. And it does feel good, doesn’t it?”
I sighed, knowing I had to be honest. “Yes, dear. It does. Or at least, it should. But the first time can hurt, too. You know, when you – um, you know…”
When I proved incapable of completing the sentence, Larissa did it for me. “When you lose your cherry.”
“Larissa!”
“Okay, okay. When your – when your hymen gets broken, then.”
I felt my face flush. I wasn’t used to discussing these kinds of things with her! “You know, lots of boys aren’t very good at sex to start with. Until they get more experience, I mean. They just want to satisfy themselves, and don’t think about the girl at all. And just who do you want to have sex with, anyway? Someone you know at school? A teacher, or one of the neighbours?”
She pondered it over for a moment, then said, “Well, I’m friends with a couple of girls who are gay… maybe one of them would, um, be with me. There’s a couple of boys who might like to. Or I could ask some girl I know if she’d let me borrow her boyfriend. I – I don’t know, I haven’t thought about that part yet, just that I want to!”
By then, I was getting frustrated. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to tell you! Am I supposed to help you with this? Advertise in the Help Wanted column? Oh, I can just imagine that: ‘Wanted – nice guy or cute girl to deflower a fourteen-year-old virgin. Forward resume and references, etc, etc.’ Is that what you had in mind? And since when are you attracted to girls, anyhow?”
“I don’t know, I just am! Why are you getting mad at me?”
Good sense told me to calm down, to discuss this rationally with my daughter. But my emotions were running rampant. “I can’t deal with this!” I cried. “I’ve got too much to handle already, coping with your condition. Now you want me to, to pimp for you? Help you get laid? Is that what you fucking want?”
It was at that point that I realised what hateful things I was saying to my little girl. I fell silent, frozen to the spot, and numb with horror.
Larissa’s bottom lip was trembling, and her eyes were filled with tears. One had already started to roll down her cheek.
But it was the look in my daughter’s eyes that cut me to the quick… as if she’d been left alone on a desert island, and was watching the boat slowly sail away.
Bursting into sobs of my own, I fell on my knees before Larissa and hugged her tightly. Between gasps, I tried to undo the damage I’d done.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, so sorry… I didn’t mean that – it’s not how I really feel – I’m just so frustrated, don’t know what to do. My little girl is sick and I can’t make her better… Listen, sweetie – I don’t know how, but I’ll try to think of some way to get you what you want. I love you so much, Larissa…. You’re everything to me.”
“I love you too, Mum,” Larissa echoed. Then she said it again, in a slightly different tone. “I love you, too.”
Gently breaking free from our embrace, she gazed at me. The look in her eyes… it was as if she was peering into my soul.
Then Larissa leaned forward and kissed me. On the mouth. Only for a moment, but she allowed it to linger.
For a few heartbeats, we stared at each other. My heart was racing as I began to understand what my daughter was thinking. What she wanted from her mother.
“Mom?” she murmured shyly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe… maybe you could help me…?”
“Oh, no! NO!” I exclaimed, but Larissa wasn’t listening.
My mouth wasn’t listening either.
I still can’t figure out how it happened, but suddenly my daughter and I were kissing again, this time for longer, and with greater passion. Maybe she’d never kissed anyone in a romantic way, but her enthusiasm made up for lack of experience. This time her tongue was exploring my mouth, seeking my tongue… and I was helpless to do anything but respond.
I returned my daughter’s kiss. She was sighing into my mouth, wrapping both arms around me.
Larissa told me that she wanted to have sex before she died, but in fact, she wanted it right then! And I wanted it too.
By then, my mind had managed to get into first gear and was telling me just how wrong this was… and as the grownup, I should’ve been the one to put a stop to it. But at that moment, it was harder to refuse my child’s final wish than it was to give in, let her have this experience she so desperately longed for.
Besides, Larissa’s body felt so good in my arms; her kisses tasted divine. And I had gone for much too long without a lover. In fact, I hadn’t been with a girl since my days at university. I was struggling with feelings I’d not had in quite a long time… and very much wanting to feel them again.
I was rationalising my behaviour, trying to justify making love to Larissa. I’m helping out my daughter, my mind was saying, trying to shift into reverse. This makes her happy. Honestly, where’s the harm? Why can’t a mother do this for her child?
All kinds of stuff like that whirled through my head – and all of it serving only as an excuse for my failure to put an end to this nonsense.
This improper, immoral, illegal nonsense.
And my conscience failed me. All my resistance evaporated. Consequences be damned, I was going to make love to my own daughter.
Because she didn’t know how to proceed, I took the initiative. I reached up to carefully place a hand on Larissa’s breast.
“What are you doing, Mum?” Larissa asked, but made no attempt to stop me. In fact, she leaned back slightly, resting against the back of her chair.
“I… I’m just doing what I can to make you feel better. Do you like it when I do this?”
“Yes, Mummy, it’s lovely,” Larissa sighed, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. I noticed the way she addressed me as ‘Mummy’. It had been a long time since she’d spoken that word – I suppose she considered it too childish for a teenager to use. My heart melted, and I grew even more convinced that this was the right thing to do for my poor sick daughter.
I also noticed that Larissa hadn’t looked so content, so relaxed in weeks – not since we got the awful news of her diagnosis.
Rising, I took my daughter’s hand. “Come.” I led the way to her bed, where we lay down together. Looking into Larissa’s eyes, I saw only love, not a trace of concern or fear.
That encouraged me to continue, so I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, then began to caress Larissa’s breasts through the t-shirt she liked to wear around the house. Even covered by a layer of cotton, I felt the nipple respond, growing firm to my touch. With a blissful sigh, Larissa arched her back like a stretching cat, and I lightly pinched the swollen tip of her breast.
All of a sudden, I was no longer satisfied with touching my daughter through her clothes. I wanted to feel her bare skin!
I had to be careful, though — the last thing I wanted was to frighten my poor child. So I said, “If you like, I could probably touch you under your shirt. That is if you want me to.”
It was something of a shock, the realization of what I was asking Larissa to allow me to do. Not in a million years could I have imagined loving my daughter like this, not even a few minutes ago. But I was only giving my girl a little pleasure when she needed it so badly… wasn’t that what a mother should do?
“Okay, Mom,” Larissa whispered.
Reaching down to the hem of her long t-shirt, I slowly drew it up over Larissa’s hips, revealing her baby blue panties along the way, until her belly was exposed. I placed my hand there, marvelling at the softness of her skin. Well aware of the line I was crossing, I allowed that hand to slip beneath the shirt and move upward, until I was touching her bare breast. Larissa was a slender, willowy girl, and only bothered to wear a bra on the rare occasions when she went out.
The mound was warm and supple, and her nipple responded unmistakably when my fingers brushed it. I reached over to give the other breast some attention, with the same satisfying result.
“Is this good, sweetheart?”
The reply was a tiny nod of the head; barely visible, but certain.
I began to caress my daughter’s body in a large circle, my hand making an arc from her chest to her navel. When Larissa shifted herself, trying to move her body up toward the head of the bed, I enlarged the circle my hand was tracing, until it reached the waistband of her panties.
After only a few circuits, Larissa spoke a single word: “Please.” I increased the circle further still, my fingers dipping under the waistband each time around.
She looked up at me. “Would it be okay if I, um, take them off?”
“I’ll do it,” I told her. “Just lift up a bit.”
Larissa raised her hips up from the bed, and I took hold of her panties and slowly worked them down to her ankles. She lowered herself, and I slipped them over her feet and off. They were warm and slightly damp, and I felt a crazy impulse to press her underwear against my face, to savor her scent.
I didn’t, though. Instead, I said, “Why don’t you take your shirt off too? It’s not cold in here.”
“No, it’s not,” Larissa replied with a smile. “In fact, I’m feeling kinda warm.” Sitting up she shucked the t-shirt and lay back down, now completely naked.
Of course I’d seen my daughter in the nude before, even after she’d begun to develop – but those had been innocent glimpses, like when I had to use the toilet while she was in the shower. I’d admired Larissa’s slim body, her breasts small but absolutely flawless. The flat belly could be attributed to her involvement in a range of sports over the years. And the patch of fine, light coloured hair that adorned her pubis was just thick enough to look mature without disguising her youthfulness.
What was different now, though, was the way I was looking at my daughter’s nakedness. It was with an eye to her sexual appeal, her beauty as a woman.
I studied her, taking in her curves, memorising them. As if she knew what I wanted, Larissa sat up straight, letting me see her properly. By then I knew that my feelings weren’t about a mother’s interest in her child’s development. I was feeling a genuine attraction, a sexual attraction, to this girl. My daughter.
“My God, you’re gorgeous. Utterly perfect,” I whispered.
That list of thou-shalt-nots was still unscrolling in my mind, admonishing me not to do this insane thing. We were both females; that’s lesbianism. At fourteen, Larissa was underage; that’s paedophilia. She’s my little girl, that’s incest. Those things are all thought to be immoral, some were actually illegal.
But that doesn’t matter, I realised. I don’t want to stop; I need for this to happen. My daughter is beautiful, she excites me, and I want to make love to her.
“So beautiful,” I heard myself murmur. “So very beautiful.”
Then her voice broke into my reverie. “Now you, Mum. I want to see you.”
Without hesitation I stood, then began removing the clothes I’d put on a few minutes earlier. Really, though, it had been a lifetime ago. I was the same, yet completely different.
Finally stepping out of my panties, I stood naked before my daughter, letting her see me. Larissa said nothing, just looked me up and down from my head to my feet. I wondered if she liked what she saw.
She spoke not a word… just held out her arms to me, and with no thoughts of doing anything else, I lay down beside my daughter and nestled into her embrace. I wish I could put it into words, how good Larissa’s bare body felt against mine after going without the touch of a lover for so long. What was it like for my child, who was experiencing this for the first time?
When her lips brushed my neck, a shiver rippled through me. She began to plant tiny kisses on my throat, along the line of my jaw, then higher. I gave a sob of mixed delight and surprise when the tip of Larissa’s tongue trailed along the edge of my ear. It was an invitation, one I was helpless to resist. Drawing back, I turned to face her, losing my soul in those yearning eyes.
Our kiss was brief and shy. We broke apart, stared at each other for a moment, then came together in a passionate, needful embrace. Our tongues met, then sparred back and forth, and my daughter and I kissed like we were feasting on one another.
I was totally engrossed in Larissa’s soft mouth when suddenly I felt something moving between my thighs. When I drew them apart, her hand made its way to the target. I gasped and she sighed at that first contact, then her fingers gently, tenderly traced a path along the moist crease of my labia.
My hand was doing the exact same thing to Larissa, and I had no need to ask whether she was enjoying it; the ‘Oooh’ sound she made was absolute proof. As my fingers dipped lower, fondling my daughter’s slit through her sparse pubes, my eyes widened in astonishment at the wetness I found there.
I began to run my fingers up and down the opening and, rewarded with more warm honey, began to slide one digit along the cleft separating the lips. This resulted in Larissa spreading her legs, to allow me easier access. As the labia parted, I was able to ease that finger between them, entering her.
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, Mum. D-don’t stop!” Larissa gasped, as if I had any intention of pulling away. It had been many years since I’d done this to another girl, but I masturbated often. I figured that what worked for me would also do the trick for my teenage daughter.
That thought gave rise to a question. “Do you ever do this to yourself, sweetie?” I asked.
It was hardly the kind of topic Larissa and I usually discussed, so she took a second to reply. “Um, yeah. Yes, I do,” she admitted, somewhat nervously. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Of course not! Why would I be upset? Every woman touches herself sometimes.”
That seemed to surprise Larissa. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I confirmed without hesitation. “Have you given yourself an orgasm, then?”
“I’m not sure, Mum.”
“Then you haven’t… because believe me, you’d know it,” I told my inexperienced little girl.
Larissa began to reply but was unable to, because it was just then that I lightly flicked my thumb against her clitoris.
The effect of all this stimulation on my daughter was predictable and immediate. A finger teasing her cunt, a thumb brushing her clit, our ardent kisses, the arousal she felt, the intimate revelations we had shared – they all added up to what was fast becoming a sensory overload.
I could see it in her eyes, that unfamiliar sensation building up inside her, the way that her legs had begun to shake uncontrollably. I suspected that she was unprepared for what was happening, incapable of processing her feelings on an intellectual level. As I fondled my child, I watched her closely, aching to see that bright shining moment of release.
When her climax hit, I pressed Larissa’s labia between two fingers, timing the pressure with her reactions. At that instant, all I knew was joy, the first real joy I’d experienced in weeks. How many mothers got to witness their daughter’s very first orgasm?
As she reached the height of her ecstasy, I quickly moved to lie between Larissa’s thighs, my face mere inches from her glistening vagina.
I put my mouth to the pink, swollen cunt of my daughter, and began to lick up and down, getting my first taste of her. It was divine, like some new, unfamiliar fruit.
Larissa wanted more from me, though. “Do it, Mummy, g-go into me. Please. I want it, want you to be the one! Please!”
I wriggled into a sort of crouching position, so that I could keep my mouth glued to Larissa’s clit, then put my fingers at the entrance, gently opening her up. I worked to get my daughter as aroused as possible, teetering on the brink of another orgasm.
Her breathing had turned to panting, little moaning sounds were escaping her open mouth, and then she gasped out, “I’m gonna… I’m g-gonna… oh God, MUM!”
Hoping I’d timed it to perfection, I plunged two fingers into her vagina.
Whatever pain she felt from her hymen tearing tipped her over the edge, and Larissa screamed out loud, a massive orgasm shaking her like a rag doll.
As the climax ripped through her body, I pumped my fingers into and out of her pussy in the best imitation I could manage of a man’s cock, all the while nursing at her clit.
Struck by a thought, I raised my face from her pussy so that I could watch her face while she was caught up in rapture. God, she was even more beautiful than ever.
When her orgasm began to subside, I covered her slit with my mouth, sampling, and loving the sweetness of her nectar. In very little time, Larissa had another climax, milder but more prolonged.
Then she lay motionless, but for the rise and fall of her chest. After a moment, her eyes fluttered open. I was a little nervous, wondering how she felt about what I’d just done. Was she having second thoughts?
But she gave me a weak smile, then whispered, “Mum… please kiss me.”
I took her in my arms, and our mouths met. Larissa hummed with a child’s delight as she licked around my parted lips, tasting herself.
***
We lay together all afternoon and into the evening.
For a long time we just kissed and snuggled, and Larissa masturbated me to an orgasm of my own. I discovered that getting finger-fucked by my fourteen-year-old daughter was an enormous turn-on.
Then she crawled between my legs, put her face to my pussy and ate me to a climax, but only because she demanded that I let her do it. I really wanted all the lovemaking to be for her enjoyment, but she did insist that pleasuring me was a big part of the pleasure she got from our little mother-daughter fuckfest.
We fell asleep in each other’s arms, woke up to find that we‘d forgotten to eat dinner, started kissing, got into a sixty-nine (the first time I’d ever experienced that with a female), then showered together. I even slipped a finger into her anus while we were showering, which got us in the mood all over again.
There beneath the flowing water, we somehow managed to arrange ourselves so our pussies could rub together, and fucked on the slippery tiles until we both came. I later found out that lesbians do that all the time, and they call it tribbing. After that, we stumbled back to my bed, crawled beneath the sheets, and passed out.
I woke just as the sun was rising so, in the most maternal way I could, I tongued my daughter until she woke up too.
I had to see the look on her face when she awakened with her cunt being licked. It made me wonder: why can’t every mother and daughter experience something so wonderful, so pleasurable, together? Right then, it made perfect sense. I would never suggest such a thing to other parents, but… oh, dear lord, her face was positively radiant when she became conscious, realised what was happening, and then lay back to enjoy it until she came yet again.
Afterward, we lay together, gently kissing and cuddling – not in a sexual way, just gentle and loving.
Larissa looked at me with a beaming smile and a brightness in her eyes that I’d never expected to see again. “Mum, that was so wonderful. It was exactly what I wanted… needed, even. Thank you, thank you so much for giving me that.”
“It was my pleasure,” I assured her, then realised something and corrected myself. “It was our pleasure.”
“Yes it was, wasn’t it?” she replied. “And I love you for doing that for me.”
She kissed me with passion, but without sexual desire. We had shared physical love, but somehow we knew without saying so that it had been a one-time-only thing. It was now part of our relationship, but only a small part. Our love as mother and daughter had been totally fulfilled.
***
Two days later, I arrived home from work and called a greeting to Larissa while closing the front door. In response, her voice came from the living room, so after dropping my keys and wallet in their allocated space on the kitchen counter, I followed the sound.
I found my daughter with the TV on, her portable in her lap. “How are you, sweetie?” I asked.
“Fair, Mum,” was the reply.
I immediately felt a clutch of fear. “What’s wrong, honey? Are you feeling bad? Did something happen? Are you getting worse?”
“Nothing quite like that,” she told me. “But there is something I need to discuss with you.” She took a deep breath, then said, “Mum… I’ve decided that I don’t want to do this anymore.”
The words carried no inflection that hinted at their meaning. Those days, Larissa spent her time rereading favourite books, watching the DVDs she liked, listening to her CD collection and chatting online with friends. I had no way of guessing which activity she was referring to.
“What don’t you want to do anymore, baby?” I asked.
“This! Any of it. I’m just filling in time doing this stuff, waiting for the end.”
I was stunned by what I was hearing, but Larissa wasn’t done yet.
“I don’t want to just sit here, waiting to get worse. I don’t want to end up in some hospital with tubes sticking out of me, hooked up to machines to keep me alive. That isn’t being alive. I won’t be able to feed myself, so I’ll need to have that done for me. And if my brain function gives out, I’ll be helpless, sitting in my own filth, needing somebody to clean me up.”
All the while I was shaking my head in horror, attempting to protest what Larissa was saying, but she was too determined to let me speak, cutting me off with an abrupt gesture.
“I don’t want you to see me like that… I don’t want anyone to,” she continued. “I want to go on my terms, with whatever dignity I still have. I’ve seen photos of – of what happens to people who have what I’ve got. I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen to me!”
“Wh-what do you mean?” I breathed, fearful that I already knew the answer.
“I’m going to finish this while I still have control. My time, when I choose.”
My head was spinning; I felt like I might collapse on the spot. “No… no, you can’t! I won’t let you!”
She shook her head. “It’s not your decision, Mum.”
Why was she so calm about this? “How… how are you…?” I whispered, already dreading what she might say.
“I’m not going to tell you that. But it has to be quick, so I won’t be able to lose my nerve. And I don’t want to, you know, mess myself up. So one day, when you’re out, l… well, that’s when I’ll do it.”
“Then I won’t go out, damn it. That’ll stop you.”
Larissa smiled sympathetically. “Mum… you can’t always be home. You have to go to work, and to the shops. You’ll have to put petrol in the car. Maybe not right away, but some time. In fact, you don’t even need to be out of the house. I can slip out while you’re asleep, or in the toilet, or having a shower.”
I didn’t quite faint, but I did collapse into the nearest chair, realising that my daughter had laid her plans all too carefully. And she knew, too, that she was entitled to decide her own fate. It was an argument that we had discussed and resolved, back when there was still a possibility that she might have to undergo painful treatment.
But back then, it had been an abstract concept, for ‘when the time comes’. Now, however, it was too close to reality, and oh, so much harder to accept. I shivered as the truth of it struck me: Larissa had decided that her position was hopeless, that life held no more value for her.
Seeing me lost in utter defeat, Larissa’s tone softened. “I’m sorry to hit you with this all of a sudden, Mum. Can we maybe not talk about this anymore, and have a nice evening together?”
It took more strength than I knew I had, but I managed to summon up a weak smile. “I’d like that, sweetie.”
She wrapped her arms around me. “Know what I’d like? I haven’t had a curry in, oh my gosh, ages. Could you nip down to Sanjay’s and get us both takeaways?”
“Okay,” I said. “That does sound nice.”
By that time I had, for all practical purposes, ceased to reason; I was acting purely on autopilot as I went outside to the car, started it and drove off. Unable to cope with a situation that was beyond my control, I simply let events unfold as they would.
Gutless, I know. Cowardly, yes. More than that, I was desperately naive, unable to recognize the trick that my daughter had just played on me.
Larissa had planned comprehensively, leaving nothing to chance. As soon as I drove away, she activated a small reminder prompt that she’d set up on her laptop; it would operate in thirty minutes, and after that every additional half hour. The reminder carried only one item – a location.
Grabbing what she needed from the kitchen, Larissa dropped a single sheet of paper on the counter and hastened out the back door, probably before my car had even turned out of the street.
Some twenty minutes later, I drove the car into the garage and entered the house through the back door.
The sheet of paper caught my attention as I set the bag of food down on the counter. As I picked the paper up, my hand shook and I had to lean on the marble surface to make out my little girl’s message.
I’m sorry, Mum, but I have to do this. I can’t let it beat me. I had it all planned, so when you went out I just had to set things going. I’ll send you a message to tell you where to find me.
I want it to be quick, and certain, with no chance that I’ll screw it up.
You gave birth to me, gave life to me, showed me what real love is, and now you’re giving me the opportunity to find true peace in the end.
I LOVE YOU!
Goodbye, Larissa
The finality of the note snapped me back to reality. Snatching up my phone, I called the emergency number, asking for the police.
An operator answered almost immediately, saying, “Police emergency operator. What is the nature of your emergency?”
I was panicking, practically incoherent. “My little girl! I came home, and there was this, this note. I think she’s going to… to do something…”
The operator, clearly used to dealing with callers who were in panic mode, calmly asked, “Can you tell me your name, ma’am, and your location?”
When I provided the data, the operator continued. “I’ll dispatch a car to your location straight away. Do you know the whereabouts of your daughter right now?”
I had to acknowledge that I didn’t have a clue and continued to answer questions as best I could while the operator kept me on the line and tried, with only very limited success, to calm me.
As the sound of a siren heralded the arrival of the police, I hung up the phone and ran to the front door. Even before they could knock, I flung the door open.
***
The coffin on the bier had a hinged lid to reveal the face of the deceased. Just as Larissa planned, she looked perfectly natural, almost alive.
A group of her school friends filed by to take a final look, all sobbing or showing signs of distress. Each one placed a posy or some memento in with Larissa. I was seated in the first pew, barely aware of any of it. Also present were the two cops, a few of the neighbours, my daughter’s roll class teacher, and the counsellor who had helped Larissa and me to prepare, as much as we were able, for the end.
Everybody offered condolences and sympathy, for which I formally thanked them. But I was responding more or less automatically, as a robot might – I really wasn’t functioning as a person.
The school had suggested to Larissa’s friends that they write out some special memories they had of her; some of them read their tributes out loud at the service, but most were too distressed to do that. But they all gave me what they’d written, all done by hand and bound into a book that I could keep forever.
I had so many recollections of my own… yet there was one that stood out, a very special memory of my precious Larissa that I would never be able to share with anyone – except like this, set down in a story by an anonymous author. That memory was of my daughter’s final wish, of something we shared, something beautiful, something private and personal that was ours alone.
The End
If you’ve enjoyed this story check out the sequel, By Invitation Only.
Author’s Note: I want to thank Jetboy for helping me to tell the story. His editing and suggestions made everything clearer and more complete.
1
I wonder about the mother of every young girl I meet. How much physical contact do they enjoy in public? How much more in private? Maybe the juiciest secret of all is that, deep down, we moms harbor the same nurturing and naughty desires for our budding daughters, whether we have consummated them or not.