Daughters

I am in the shower at The Library Officer's house when I hear voices from downstairs. I take my time getting dressed but can still hear him talking to someone and there is only so long that I can hide in the bedroom pretending to do my hair. Finally, I walk downstairs and am introduced to one of his daughters, Daughter Number 3. It's awkward but he seems oblivious. "You can both chat while I have a shower," he says. We don't chat: she sits at the kitchen table using his laptop and I sit in the living room, texting my friend, Mrs B. "At least he didn't make you hide," she writes, trying to console me. He reappears after a few minutes and I'm so glad he doesn't take showers for as long as I do.

I wonder what his daughter must be thinking. I haven't known him for long enough to know whether there has been an array of women through his house and bedroom. It's not the feeling I get from him. He seems so surprised and pleased by what has happened between us, as am I. But I feel so young compared to him, and even more sensitive to looking younger than I am. It's something I try talking to him about after Daughter Number 3 has left. "Did she mind me being here?" I ask. He looks unconcerned and shrugs. "I have my life as do they," he replies. That seems fair enough and I don't know what else to say. I've never dated anyone who had children, let alone four grown-up daughters. I try putting myself in their situation and find myself more judgemental than I had hoped to be.