You're Not My Dad
- a romantic story by WTSman

George got an "instant family" - and lost it again almost in an
instant. Well, not completely. But the one he was allowed to keep
didn't want him. Still, a promise is a promise.
__________________________________

"You're not my dad!"

I must have heard Camilla say that so many times I've lost count.
And it's true. I'm not her father. Only nearly. But no, I'm not
her dad. Eventually, that turned out to be a good thing, but for
many, many years her attitude pained me.

She was seven the first time she exclaimed that. In Danish you
abbreviate "Fader", the word for "Father", to "Far" which is used
just like "Dad". We have no equivalent of the childish "Daddy",
so everyone from infants to octogenarians say "Far" - "Dad",
unless you are either using very formal language, 'legalese' for
instance, or you are reciting the Lord's Prayer. Camilla did
neither.

I never knew then why she was so hostile to me. After all, I was
the closest thing to a dad she ever had. I met her mother Irene
when Camilla was around seven and her younger sisters Lisa and
Anne three and one and a half respectively. Half-sisters I should
say. Irene had shocking luck with men. Camilla's biological
father had dropped Irene the moment he learned she was pregnant.
He never had any contact with his daughter. He was an
unemployable no-gooder and died from an overdose a few years
later. Irene and Camilla struggled on.

Irene was a laboratory analyst in a pharmaceutical company when
she had Camilla, but she worried about the health implications
and didn't want to return to that kind of work. With the help of
her parents she managed to complete an education as a doctor's
secretary, a highly specialized profession. Things looked like
they were on the up and up for her; she completed her education,
got a good job and when Camilla was three she met John. She fell
pregnant almost instantly with Lisa; they were married and Irene
thought life was good.

But already before Lisa turned one, things started to look less
bright. John seemed more interested in still going out with boys
than being a father of two and took very little interest in
bringing up the girls. In a misguided attempt at "patching things
up" Irene quit the pill and was promptly pregnant again. John was
unimpressed and while not in any way abusive, he was more and
more absent. When Irene came home from the hospital after giving
birth to Anne there was someone in the house. "Meet Tina," John
said. "I'm moving in with her tonight."

He did and Irene's world collapsed around her. Her bosses - a
group of doctors who had shared chambers in the provincial town
Irene lived in - were supportive. They gave her extra maternity
leave on full pay and one of them actually helped restrain
Irene's father who was on the way to John's and Tina's place with
a shotgun. The doctor pointed out that if Irene's dad shot the
bastard - and he could well understand the impetus - then he
would only end up in jail for sixteen years and there would be
no-one to bleed for child support.

So Irene was a single mother of three kids by two different
fathers. She returned to work when Anne was a few weeks shy of
one. Irene was 36. Although still incredibly good looking, she
had mentally decided that her love-life was over. Once bitten,
twice shy they say. Twice bitten, and you just stop trying.

__________________________________


I knew nothing of this when at 26 I moved to the same town as
Irene and her daughters. I had a varied background but had
recently finished a degree in information technology and gotten a
job at a high-tech firm with a number of defence contracts. I had
an unblemished service record - I had even tried to become a Navy
Seal, but failed to make the cut (98% of applicants fail),
largely due to an asthmatic condition that is a no-no in that
line of work. But I had passed all the other hurdles, had gotten
a security clearance without problems and received my college
degree while enlisted. And immediately after my honourable
discharge I landed a plum job.

Only down-side was the location - I was a city boy; I grew up in
the capital and so I thought a town of 40.000 was hardly a town
at all and that we were totally out in the sticks. And a cloud on
the horizon was my continued problems with getting the asthma
under control. It had never bothered me before - even as an elite
swimmer, but the extreme strain of the ultimately unsuccessful
training as a "frogman", as Navy Seals are affectionately known
over here, had made it very hard to control.

They say that every dark cloud has a silver lining, and my silver
lining was Irene. It started innocently enough. I'd noticed the
pictures of her daughters on her desk at the doctors' chambers
and made some comment about "children having children". She
laughed and told me her true age which stunned me - I honestly
thought she was the same age as me or even younger - and while I
never asked her directly, I got the impression that she was
single. So I had no qualms about flirting a bit.

Neither had she - and we had plenty of opportunity. Unlikely many
provincial doctors who will 'treat' asthma patients with high
doses of old, inefficient and quite often poisonous drugs;
Irene's bosses had a very different view. They wanted to find the
right drug at the right low dose and in order to achieve that, I
went through a lot of testing. That of course required a lot of
appointments which in turn required a lot of interaction with
Irene. And not just jostling calendars; while she was not a nurse
and thus not permitted to do things like taking blood samples,
she could operate the apparatus used to measure lung capacity. I
noticed, with considerable pleasure, that she always wanted to
book me on days when the nurse wasn't there so she had to do it -
and preferably days where I had to be in shirt-and-tie at work
and thus had to strip down to my naked torso to do the
measurements.

One day I was distracted by something and still dressed when she
came in to do the measurement. "You gotta get your shirt off,"
she said with a glint in the eye.

"Sorry," I said. And then added in a little boy voice. "Perhaps
you'd like to help me?"

There was one of the those brief pauses - perhaps only lasting a
few seconds - that felt like aeons because the whole atmosphere
was so charged with sexual tension.

"Sure baby," she eventually said and proceeded to untie my tie
and unbutton my shirt. By the time my torso was naked I had the
mother of all boners and my breathing was ragged. I'm sure the
measurements must have been quite unusual that day.

We didn't repeat the undressing at the doctors' chambers, but I
would make sure I always had a reason to strip down when I was
tested and we always touched each other in a flirty way. She in
turn was quite open about studying the bulge in my pants but she
never touched it.

__________________________________


I went out a bit but didn't find anyone special; random
acquaintances at bars didn't interest me. I had volunteered as a
trainer in the local swimming club, but I was training youngsters
and they were of course untouchable - pretty to look at, sure,
but completely out of bounds. And besides, everyone I saw I would
compare to Irene - and they would fail.

Alas, eventually the doctors were successful. They found the
right dose of a new class of asthma drugs and after a very
interesting half year I was essentially 'cured' in as much as I
didn't need to come round for testing any more. Again Irene was
quite open about it. "I'll miss you," she said and she sounded
sincere.

"You don't have to," I replied - having made up my mind for quite
some time. "You could go out with me."

"Don't be daft George!" she said, although she sounded pleased.
"I am old woman - ten years older than you and a mother of three
to boot."

"You are better looking than anyone I know of my own age," I
countered. "You are sweet and smart and considerate and
competent. You turn me on, and you know it. And I think I could
fall in love with you in a flash - if I haven't already."

"Whoa!" Irene exclaimed, but she was blushing prettily.

"Friday?" I carried on relentlessly.

"If I can find a babysitter," she started.

"Do!" I said, "Where do I pick you up?"

She gave me the address.

"Friday at seven," I said and left for work.

__________________________________


The week seemed endless, but finally Friday came. I arrived in a
taxi at her house in a small village just outside of town on the
dot of seven, dressed in my Sunday best and armed with a huge
bunch of red roses. Irene was ready - quite a feat when having to
handle three small children - and dressed to the nines herself.
She was deeply touched by the roses which she put in a vase. I
heard her give a few last minute instructions to the babysitter
and then she followed me out to the waiting taxi. The taxi seemed
to puzzle her, as she knew I had a car - a very presentable
sports car even. "I never drive if I've had as much as a single
glass of wine," I explained.

"Oh!" was all she said. She later told me that was the moment she
decided I was worth considering as a partner, displaying the kind
of responsibility she had craved but never found in any other
man.

The dinner was a huge success.  I had gone all out and booked a
table at a manor house that had made a business out of romantic
dinners and dances in the stately rooms. All girls, regardless of
age, like to be treated like a princess and I made sure that's
how Irene felt that night. The food was spectacular, the wines -
and I certainly had more of it than the traffic code would have
permitted, even if I was far from drunk - superb. The band was
very good and I flatter myself that I am a good dancer. I have a
dozen or so cups and medals from my teenage years to back up the
claim; I only gave it up at a competitive level because I had to
choose between dancing and swimming.

Irene was good too, if somewhat out of practise - both her
previous men would have scoffed at the idea of dancing. But she
held her own and I could lead her - especially during the slow
dances where we were plastered to each other.

I was certain at the end of the evening that I had fallen in
love, and so had Irene. Contrary to our expectations, completely
against what we would 'usually do', and against all usual 'rules'
for that kind of thing, I stayed the night. In fact I moved in
and never left. Think us mad: First date. Invited in for night
cap. Passionate love in bed. A recipe for disaster? No! A recipe
for six happy years.

We were awakened by the kids. Lisa and Anne came first. They were
both hungry, but they found the presence of a man in their
mother's bed most interesting. And quite fun when it turned out
that said man was good for playing. They jumped into the bed to
play; hunger being temporarily forgotten.

The ruckus woke their older sister. When she came into the
bedroom we were finally doing something about the fact that both
the little ones were in need of nappy attention. My experience
with babies and toddlers was limited, but I was able to remove
Lisa's night nappy and wipe her dry while Irene changed Anne.

Camilla came in while we were doing that and she immediately
seemed more than a little sceptical about the whole thing. Irene
assured me that she was just shy and would warm to me soon
enough, but it actually never happened. She remained reserved,
aloof even, and when her two sisters tentatively referred to me
as "Dad" or "New Dad", Camilla scornfully rejected the idea. I
was NOT her dad, new or otherwise.

And for some reason, that I never understood, her hostility was
most evident when I was taking care of her sisters' more intimate
needs. She even made some comment about me changing her sisters
that, had they been aired outside the house, could have landed me
in trouble.

I suppose a psychological analysis would unveil factors like her
absent father and John's subsequent base betrayal in her attitude
towards men, and, by proxy, me. Anyway, although it wasn't all
that nice, it didn't worry me too much. I loved and adored Irene
and her children. If I was only loved and adored back by three
out of four of them, it didn't ruin the balance.

Camilla pointed out that her younger sisters, unlike her,
actually had a "real dad'' as she called it. John was definitely
persona non grata and Irene was visibly upset that he was
suddenly being called into Camilla's little games. It coincided
with him actually - for the first time ever - taking an interest
in his daughters. Tina the big-boobed-bimbo was out of the
picture and John had met Hanne, a very nice quiet girl around my
age. She encouraged John to own up to his responsibilities as a
father and urged him to get a functioning and civil relationship
with his ex-wife for the sake of their shared daughters.

John had obviously done some growing up and tried. Irene,
however, was not ready for that, so - as frequently happens - the
practicalities were initially handled by Hanne and me. The
outcome was that a so-called "ten-four" arrangement was made for
Lisa and Anne. During a two week period they would spend ten days
with Irene and four with John; in practice every second weekend
and one fixed day - in our case Wednesday - every week. Holidays
and birthdays and what have you were handled according to an
elaborate schedule. To us it seemed complex; to the authorities
it was completely standard - there are thousands and thousands of
families whose relations are sorted out that way.

And after a bit of adjustment it worked very well for us too.
Crèches and kindergartens are used to it and most importantly
Lisa and Anne reacted very positively to it too. They liked both
their parents - and their parents' new partners, and when after a
couple of years Hanne and John had a little boy they were
thrilled.

I had - carefully - been broaching the subject of a similar idea
with Irene. She was unwilling to contemplate it. Although we had
a close, loving and trusting relationship she still feared that I
might vanish one day - and she "didn't want to have four kids by
three absent men". Nor was she willing to marry me; "I've had
enough of that," she said. "Those promises are not binding anyway
- I learnt that the hard way." I was slightly hurt by the
implication, but I knew how badly she had been treated and
frankly it didn't matter all that much.

__________________________________


One of Irene's objections against us marrying was financial. The
break-up with John had been costly; they had been forced to sell
their house at a substantial loss and she didn't want to saddle
me with her 'sexually transmitted debt,' as she called it. To me
it made no odds; I made a tidy sum each month from my work and in
my opinion money is only interesting if you don't have any.
Having me sharing the rent and all other costs meant that we were
'comfortable', if no more than that. It also meant that Irene
could start paying off on her debt - but it was sure going to
take a long time.

The house Irene and the girls were living in when I met them was
rented; she could not get credit approval to buy anything. But I
could, and since the house was nice, big enough for all of us
(even for that extra child I still hoped for), and since the
girls thought of it as their home, I made an offer and after a
bit of haggling, the owner agreed to sell. Being located outside
the town it was substantially cheaper than what we would have
paid for something similar in town itself, and yet the village
had both a school and a local shop so it suited us fine.

A year later a distant uncle of mine died. He had been living
alone not far from me so I had made sure to visit him frequently
- at least four or five times a year. The old boy - he was close
to 90 - was pathetically pleased and particularly delighted when
I brought Lisa over one time. His apartment was dark and
old-man-stuffy and he lived extremely frugally so I assumed Uncle
Hother (yes! that is actually a name!) was no better off than
most retirees who have lived so long they only have their public
pension left.

Well, I was wrong. Uncle Hother had been rich - as in very rich,
and he left it all to his "unselfish great nephew George whose
unfailing kindness has been a constant source of joy in [his]
declining years," as the will was worded. I must confess my eyes
were moist when the old-fashioned solicitor read that to me. And
completely floored when I learnt the value of the estate. A great
uncle is not a close relative in inheritance terms, so the taxman
ran off with 40%, but it was still a tidy bit. It enabled me to
pay off Irene's entire debt, the bank loan I had taken out to
finance the down-payment on the house and a substantial fraction
of the main mortgage too. We were left with only a small residual
mortgage on the house - the repayments on which were far less
than we had been paying in rent on the house.

"Right woman!" I said when I had been so see my own solicitor and
bank. "There is no more sexually transmittable debt to worry
about and thus no more excuses. Please, will you finally marry
me?"

She said yes. After four years she was finally ready to commit to
being with me for the rest of her life.

__________________________________


We were married in the summer and to my delight, Irene went all
out for it. No quick visit to the Town Hall register office; this
was a huge affair in church with white wedding dress, three girls
in matching bride's maids outfits, her father giving her away, me
and my Best Man in morning coats and top hats. The works, in
other words. And a gigantic party afterwards - at the very manor
house where we had been on our first date, of course. Our
extended families are not large, even when cousins and second
cousins are roped in, but we had a substantial network of close
friends in the local community and there were more than 100
people for the party.

There were songs and speeches and all the usual hall marks of a
Danish wedding. The speeches were varied in quality (some
toe-curlingly embarrassing, others quite good), but uniform in
theme. They all said something akin to "third time lucky" which
made Irene light up in a gorgeous smile, and they all talked
about the girls, especially Camilla, "getting a dad". And on each
occasion Camilla would hiss "He is not my dad." It was laughed
off - which angered her, and it was a 'stone in the shoe', even
if it couldn't ruin an otherwise wonderful day.

In August, Anne started school. She and Lisa were enrolled in
another school than Camilla - a fairly expensive but very good
private school in town. This was a compromise forged with John -
and quite OK, all up, even though the village school was fine and
most of their playmates were going to go there. But there was a
complication: Anne's first day in school coincided with Camilla
starting in a new school too. She was starting year 6 and since
the village school only did K-5 she was transferring to a large
state school in town. This school - which took in kids from the
small district schools for year 6 every year - had observed that
some of the kids from the smaller local communities found the
transition difficult. To counter that they had decided that it
worked better if the parents were involved from the start. All
very positive, I'm sure, and well meaning.

So we were invited to come for morning coffee on the first day.
Irene was adamant she wanted to be there for Anne's first day at
the private school, so I offered to take Camilla. That didn't go
down well! In fact, it was a nightmare of a day. She was petulant
and outright rude and would loudly declare that "he is not my
dad!" when given half a chance or even none.

By the time the kids went to their classrooms and the parents
were left to talk, the only thing anyone knew about Camilla was
that I was not her dad. "Is she very close to her biological
father?" some interfering busybody asked me.

"No," I replied tersely. "The bloke OD'ed over ten years ago, but
he dumped Camilla's mother long before Camilla was born. She has
never known him."

The woman looked shocked. She shut up, or at least I thought she
did. But only in front of me. In next to no time other parents
knew, then their kids knew and by Camilla's third day in school
someone teased her with it, which caused an explosion. I must say
to Camilla's teacher's praise that he came down like a ton of
bricks on the brat. It was made clear that continued attendance
at this school was on condition that she (the offender) kept her
greasy paws out of other people's private lives.

But it didn't help; the damage was done. Teenage starts at ten,
they say, and these kids were twelve. Camilla was yelling and
screaming at me that night. "Thanks for ruining my LIFE!" she
yelled. I apologized for having told the "stupid interfering
bitch of a woman" about Camilla's biological father, after which
she yelled even louder that I "shouldn't diss her friends'
parents." She then stormed off and slammed the door to her room
so hard it came off its hinges.

I refused to fix them until she had calmed down. I actually
couldn't then and there anyway; some plastic bits were broken and
I was not driving out to the hardware shop to buy materials. It
was a lovely evening I don't think. "We're in for an interesting
puberty," Irene observed when she had explained to Camilla that
she was going to have an open door until new hinges could be
purchased - from her pocket money.

The - sensible - initiatives to get the town and village kids to
integrate also included a party and parents were asked to
volunteer as stewards. To Camilla's chagrin her mother did so -
and then Irene got ill with a splitting migraine on the night.
The younger girls were with John and Hanne, so I could go
instead. The atmosphere in the car was frosty. Camilla ordered me
to "stay out of sight and say nothing." I naturally didn't but
rather put in a lot of effort to make the party a success. It was
- for all but Camilla. She was incensed, especially because
practically all her new class mates were raving about her 'cool
step-dad.' (They all knew I was not her dad!)

For subsequent parties from then on it was almost a requirement I
was there. The kids all knew and liked me and could trust me to
handle minor issues and not to tell tales. Well, all except
Camilla of course. But her class mates ignored her. Not that she
was unpopular or excluded from anything or generally ignored, but
on that one point they did. "Not liking George is just too
weird," as one of the boys was overheard saying.

I was well-known in the community from the swimming club too, and
we couldn't go shopping without running into a lot of 'my'
swimming kids or their parents. It always enraged Camilla.

I didn't give up. I made sure I went with Irene when there were
parents/teachers conferences (which in Denmark frequently
involved the kids too, at least for part of the session).
Camilla, for her part, made sure all her teachers knew I was not
her dad. But apart from that, I enjoyed participating. I cared
for her and hoped that once she was through puberty she would
come to accept me. I was her mother's husband, after all, and it
was not like I had supplanted her real dad in an acrimonious
divorce.

She made friends easily and despite us living a bit out of town,
there were often friends home. I would - naturally - talk to them
if I got home before they'd gone. And Camilla would scowl, but at
least she avoided open hostility after one episode where Irene,
who unbeknownst to Camilla was home with a migraine, overheard
her and - in the presence of the embarrassed friends - said there
had been guests home for the last time if Camilla repeated such
behaviour.

__________________________________


Apart from Camilla's antics - and Irene's rather too frequent
migraines, the first year as a married couple passed peacefully.
What with the lavish wedding the previous summer we hadn't done
anything in terms of a honeymoon, but when summer came again we
all went to the Canary Islands to one of those huge holiday
resorts where half the guests are Danes. It meant that there were
tons of activities for the kids in Danish so Irene and I could
have time alone too.

The activities for kids were divided according to age-groups.
Lisa and Anne were together in 'Junior Club" - the
second-youngest group - and had a ball. Unfortunately Camilla was
just too young to participate in the teenage activities and
instead had to go with in the 'tween' group. That didn't go down
well, and she somehow managed to present it as my fault that the
cut-off age for the 'Teen Club' was fourteen. She believed that I
should just have lied about her age. The fact that she not only
physically resembled the other ten to thirteen year olds but that
her date of birth was on the travel documents and she had been
given a 'Tween Club"' card already was irrelevant. Bad vibes?
Yes. But it got worse; much worse.

One morning the kids were being looked after in their 'clubs' so
Irene and I could go and see some culture and then have an
intimate lunch for two. We got back a bit late and Irene rather
urgently needed to get to our holiday apartment, so I went to
collect the girls. I passed the 'Tween Club' first and decided to
get Camilla so she could help me with her sisters. The
'tween-aged' boys were playing in the pool, but practically all
the girls were tanning or chatting in poolside deck chairs and
the bored minders - consisting of two young women and a surfer
type bloke, all in their early twenties - were in a corner. OK,
one of the young women was occasionally checking on the boys in
the water, but the other young woman and the bloke were busy
licking each other's tonsils and blatantly fondling each other.
They ignored me completely when I entered.

"Camilla," I called. Two girls looked up, but not 'my' Camilla
(it is a very common name). I smiled, shook my head and got
friendly smiles back from the other two Camillas. I tried again,
but Camilla didn't react, pretending to be asleep in her chair,
so I walked over to her and gently shook her arm.

"What do you want," she said angrily, like she didn't know me.

"Mum asked me to come and get you," I replied quietly, keen not
to make a scene.

"Go away," she yelled - she obviously was keen to make a scene.

"Camilla, please," I started.

"Is this man bothering you?" It was the amorous female minder who
had done up her bikini top again and come over.

"Yes," Camilla said petulantly. "He wants me to go with him."

"Stop this nonsense," I said. "Mum's waiting."

"He's not my dad!" Camilla exclaimed, as per usual.

"That’s enough!" I said and reached for her.

That's the last I remember; the next moment everything went
black.

__________________________________


When I came to, I was lying face down. I had an intense pain in
my neck, a heavy uncomfortable feeling in my back and the taste
of blood in my mouth. The feeling in my back was the surfer's
knee - he was weighing me down that way. The pain in my neck and
the taste of blood was caused by the karate chop he had used on
me.

"Call the police," I said.

"You'd like that, would you?" the girl said unpleasantly.

"Listen very carefully," I said. "I used to train to become a
Navy Seal. Unless your retard boyfriend lets go of me in less
than thirty seconds, I will hurt him."

"Ha! You want us the believe that?" she asked scornfully.

"I don't care what you believe. You now have twenty seconds," I
said, counting down in my head and readying myself for action.
"And you've better get hold of the police now."

"Only to have them take you away you pervert," the bloke
blustered.

"Ten," I said.

Ten seconds later the roles had reversed. An ancient patent
movement brought the bloke out of balance, another rolled him
around and a third - applying pressure to both sides of his neck
- rendered him unconscious. "If I keep pressing here for another
few seconds, his last remaining brain cells will cease
functioning and he will be dead," I said conversationally. "Now
miss, would you kindly call the police?"

She hastily flipped open her cell phone and I let go of the
moron. While she was frantically calling the police in broken
Spanish, I placed the bloke in recovery position and waited for
him to come to. He did within a minute, as expected, and looked
around wildly. "Lie still," I said, "and I won't hurt you. Move -
and I will finish you off. Do you get me?" He nodded.

The police arrived and the mayhem widened. None of the minders
had good Spanish and even their English was pretty poor. I, on
the other hand, spoke both languages fluently. The minders
claimed they had been in good faith thinking I was a child
molester (although they found it difficult to justify the
excessive force used on me - I had a welt in my neck, visible to
the police officers). I was obviously outnumbered three to one in
the explanations stakes. Until Irene arrived. She had worried
that I hadn't returned; mercifully she had gone to pick up Anne
and Lisa, and arrived in the middle of the discussion which now
also involved the 'entertainment manager' - a pooh-faced woman in
her late twenties.

Needless to say the balance shifted. The police officers - now
satisfied that a spoiled brat of a misbehaving child was the root
cause of all this, slammed the handcuffs on the male minder but
also requested that I came along for questioning. At the station
they did get hold of the police doctor to take a look at my neck
and he provided me with a cool-pack which helped instantly.

I slowly and carefully explained the situation, also making much
of the female minder's initial refusal to call the police - and
outlining the highly inappropriate conduct she and the offender,
as I consistently called him, had engaged in - in front of young
children. The latter was mainly for the benefit of the
'entertainment manager' who had insisted on coming along too.
Regardless of the outcome of the police's deliberations, the girl
and the bloke would be unemployed by nightfall.

I was allowed to go - I got sympathy and handshakes and
assurances that I could keep the still beneficial cool pack until
the following day; they even offered to drive me back to the
hotel, but I countered that a taxi would be just fine and that I
didn't want to impose on their friendliness and thus diminish
their capacity to ensure a safe environment for law-abiding
citizens and tourists. They ate that raw; the pooh-faced woman
looked even worse - well aware that she had a PR disaster on her
hands. I shan't bore you with the details, but the final outcome
was that the entire trip was free - in exchange for us not going
on national TV to tell about "Father Of Three Knocked To The
Ground By Fornicating Child-Minder On Steroids In Family Resort"
- something that would hardly have sold holidays in large
numbers.

So, yes, she had to do real work for her money that week,
rearranging her suddenly diminished young staff and beating them
into submission in the behaviour stakes. She told me that in the
taxi home that we shared, and I ended up feeling sorry for her.

__________________________________


Not that the situation in our little family was any better when I
got to the apartment. Camilla was still defiant, but it was
obvious she had been crying. Irene looked at her in a significant
way when I had walked in and said "Well?” Camilla sulkily looked
away, and Irene exploded. "Right young lady, you've had your
chance. You were to apologize when poor George got back, and you
didn't. Go to your room!"

"I'm sorry, OK?" she yelled.

"No, not OK," her mother replied at approximately the same
volume. "You are grounded for the rest of the trip. You will not
leave your room until we drive to the airport."

I was between a rock and a hard place as the saying goes. The
punishment metered out to Camilla by her mother was perfectly
justified, but it would do nothing to improve our relationship. I
decided to be conciliatory. "I think that is a bit harsh love," I
said quietly. "It wasn't Camilla who bashed me up - she couldn't
know that the psychopath would do that."

"No, but she should just have gone with you when you came for
her!" Irene said.

"Sure, and she knows that now," I started.

"Well, we can't let this pass unpunished!" Irene blustered.

"It won't," I said. "I've been told the 'Club Tween' is shut down
for the rest of the week - they can't get other staff in with
this short notice - so Camilla will have to be with her sisters
in 'Junior Club' for the rest of the holidays."

"I'd rather be in my room then!" Camilla yelled and stormed off
in a huff.

So much for conciliation! But Camilla did end up going with her
sisters. Although thirteen, she was still looking like a small
girl. Puberty hadn't hit yet. "At least not the physical signs,"
as Irene said when we were in bed later that evening. "When it
comes to behaviour she has been in full-blown puberty for years!"

I wasn't inclined to disagree. And speaking about 'full-blown', a
few moments later I had forgotten all about spoiled children.
Irene was an unsurpassable master at blow-jobs. There are bad
blow-jobs. There are so-so blow-jobs. There are good blow-jobs.
There are fantastic blow-jobs. And then there were Irene's
blow-jobs. She could get a rise out of an ancient Pope and make
him forego the Kingdom of Heaven for her blow-jobs. Except I was
the lucky devil being exclusively serviced by the best oral sex
the world has seen.

__________________________________


Unfortunately the oral sex, or indeed any sex, was getting rare.
Not from lack of enthusiasm or desire, but because Irene's
headaches got worse and more frequent. She also started having
problems with her eyesight. Being in her early forties it wasn't
unusual that she should need glasses, but they only helped
partially - and the headaches got progressively worse. I don't
know what it is with doctors, nurses and other medical staff.
They seem hopeless at looking after their own health and we had
reached October before Irene finally went to see a doctor. (Like
duh! She worked for four of them!) She was immediately referred
to a specialist who found the symptoms so alarming that he sent
her to be scanned at the University Hospital in Copenhagen at
once.

The outcome was catastrophic; there was a large growth in Irene's
brain and the diagnosis was dire - the tumour was malignant and
fast growing. Over the span of just weeks, her vision
deteriorated to the point where driving was unsafe and her speech
also started to be affected. The prognosis was heart-breaking: If
nothing was done she would be dead in two to three months. Max.
If an operation was attempted, and even a layman could understand
how risky that would be, there was only a 20% chance that she
would even wake up from the anaesthetics at all - and there was a
high risk of at least some permanent brain damage.

Irene was a fighter and she had a lot to live for. So she decided
to take the one chance offered and the operation was scheduled.
Just before she was wheeled away to theatre, we talked for the
last time. Her speech was slurred and she could only control one
eye, but she looked at me and said "George, if this fails the
little ones will still have their father. But Camilla has no-one.
I know she hates your guts, even if I don't know why. But promise
me you'll take care of her. Promise."

With tears in my eyes I promised. It was the last time I saw
Irene alive. The surgery was unsuccessful - she died on the
operating table; she haemorrhaged massively, destroying both the
brain and the brain stem. At 32 my "instant family" was taken
from me again in an instant. I had loved all four of them; the
three that loved me back were gone. Lisa and Anne naturally got
to stay with their father, his new wife and their little brother
permanently. Call me a chicken, but I left it to John and
(mainly, I suspect) Hanne to explain to them that their mother
was gone. John and Hanne promised that I would still play a role
in the girls' lives, but it never happened. I sent presents and
cards and so on, but visits just didn't seem to happen. I became,
at most, a distant 'uncle' who picked up their sultry big sister
after her rare visits, and in time they forgot what I'd been to
them.

Camilla was, naturally, completely distraught. As Irene had
pointed out, she had no-one else but me now. Camilla’s father was
long dead and her maternal grandparents elderly and frail.
Although Irene and I had been married, I had never adopted
Camilla, but since her biological father was dead the municipal
authorities simply assumed that Camilla and I both would be fine
with me having full custody as her guardian and the paperwork was
duly issued without any questions being asked. What would have
happened if they had asked her, I don't know. She so didn't want
me. Possibly she would have been put in foster care. But I had
made my promise. It was Irene's dying wish that I should look
after Camilla, and I am not one to go back on a promise. Ever.

__________________________________


Just to make a damned situation worse, physical puberty hit
Camilla big time. As in she literally got her first period the
very day we buried her mother. I'm told that the later puberty
sets in, the worse it is. I don't know if that is true, but for
Camilla - a late bloomer - the next many months were hell, and I
was at a complete loss of what to do to help her, even with those
things I could help her with. The hormones not only brought
additional emotional upheaval and screaming-agony irregular
periods, they also brought rapid and very painful breast growth.
She'd had aa-cup trainer bras for a long time (the kinds that are
essentially padding only); now it was obvious she needed real
bras. I braced myself for the task and one Thursday afternoon I
picked her up at school.

"What do you want," she asked unpleasantly - giving me flash
backs to the Canary Island experience.

"We're going clothes-shopping," I said. "You've grown out of lots
of things." That was true - she had also added several inches in
height.

"OK," she said. At least she was enough of a teenaged girl to
appreciate shopping, even if her shopping companion was not to
her liking.

I drove to a shopping centre in town and steered us towards a
large H&M; a safe choice since I knew she liked their stuff. I
was aware I could be in for a major scene if I mishandled this in
any way, and I was so preoccupied that I walked into someone.
"Hullo George," a youthful voice said.

I looked up into a pair of humorous blue eyes set in a friendly -
and quite beautiful - face. "Emma!" I exclaimed. She was one of
my 'swimming girls' and she was wearing an H&M staff badge.
Salvation seemed near. "I am so happy I should bump into you," I
gushed.

"Literally," she giggled, and we both laughed. "What can I do for
you?" she asked.

"Camilla here needs a lot of stuff and I want you to help her," I
replied.

"Sure," Emma said. She was looking at both of us with compassion
in her eyes. Our misfortune was public knowledge in town; my
swimming kids had been great. "Anything in particular?"

"Camilla has undergone some bodily changes," I said carefully.
"And not just in height."

I was pointedly looking at Emma's breasts - something I would
never do at swimming training. A pity, really - she has great
breasts. She also has a sharp mind. After only a fraction of a
second - presumably wondering why her swimming instructor was
suddenly gaping at her boobs when he completely ignored them when
she showed them off in a swimsuit two times a week, she nodded
imperceptibly. "Come along Camilla," she said. "Let's find what
you need."

I stayed discreetly in the background, but while Camilla was
trying something on I rushed over to Emma. "Thank you
sweetheart," I said. "Get her everything she needs. There is no
limit and no questions will be asked."

"Sure George," Emma replied, and I withdrew again.

The two girls where chatting freely enough about clothes, but
Camilla's attempt at distancing herself from me when she noticed
I was within earshot backfired. "He is not my dad," I heard her
say, not unexpectedly.

"I know he isn't," Emma replied neutrally.

"He's a sleazebag," Camilla muttered - loud enough for me to
hear. The word Danish teenagers use is 'klam' - literally
'clammy'.

"I know he isn't," Emma repeated. This time there was steel in
her voice. "My friends and I appear in body hugging swimsuits in
front of George every time we train. We all feel completely safe
around him. He's the least sleazy person I have ever met. He is
also decking you out in all the clothes you need. Shall we get on
with that?"

Unexpectedly called wrong and shamed, a shocked Camilla backed
down, and the shopping process was completed. It came to a tidy
sum, but as promised I paid it unflinchingly. I was made to carry
most of the stuff out of the shop and Camilla didn't dream of
thanking me. To her way of thinking, I was to blame for the
public humiliation she had been subjected to when Emma told her
where to get off.

__________________________________


There were countless situations like that. I tried to make peace
with her, not setting any preconditions, but she scornfully
rejected all overtures; she was essentially just living in my
house - we had no interaction beyond the most basic. She wouldn't
let me. She started to engage in high risk behaviour, including
smoking and out-of-control drinking at parties. I had her put on
long-term contraception. That at least protected her against
pregnancy and she had been vaccinated against cervical cancer,
but other STDs were a definite risk. And the drinking was
ominous. Twice I had to collect her from the hospital ER ward
where she had been brought in by ambulance in a semi-conscious
state and had her stomach emptied to stop an acute alcohol
poisoning. "Here's your dad for you," a nurse said on the second
occasion when I arrived bleary-eyed at two in the morning.

"He's not my dad," she slurred - she half was sitting, half
leaning up against a policeman.

"Well, you should be happy he can be bothered picking up a little
shit like you then," the disgusted policeman said loudly. He was
Emma's boyfriend and knew what I was being subjected to.

Sympathy or not, they had to report the incident to the social
authorities and some very unpleasant meetings followed. I
admitted readily that I was at my wits' end. "She has never liked
me, but both her parents are dead and her late mother made me
promise to look after her. Only, I don't seem to be doing a very
good job at that, do I?"

"I don't think there is anything wrong with you," the senior
social worker said. Her son was a champion swimmer and the whole
family liked me. "But obviously this whole situation is not
working."

The outcome was 'efterskole' - literally 'after school'. Denmark
does not in general have boarding schools (except a few high
schools that cater for kids coming from the smaller habited
islands), but it is quite popular to take year nine, the last
year of primary school (and/or an optional year ten) at special
boarding schools that only offer those levels, before embarking
on the three year high school program. We decided that Camilla
should do both year nine and year ten at an efterskole a long way
away. Her knee-jerk reaction would be to oppose anything I said,
but for this once she agreed readily and after the summer she
left with no regrets.

Normally efterskole kids come home frequently on weekends and for
the holidays. Camilla didn't want to, and since she had made
friends quickly at the new school she managed to find
alternatives during most holidays. She was only home for a few
weeks during the summer break between year nine and ten, then the
pattern repeated itself. She had coloured her hair black and
dressed up as a Goth, or Emo, or whatever. Something that
signalled that step-parents were superfluous at any rate. But at
least she wasn't into tattoos or piercings.

I was perfectly aware that she was unlikely to desire coming back
to stay with me when she finished efterskole. She would be
sixteen, nearly seventeen, and in complete understanding with her
case worker we found an 'ungdomsbolig' - 'youth dwelling' - for
her. I paid all her expenses, but I never saw her. Technically I
was keeping my promise to Irene; in fact I was doing as much for
Camilla as she would let me. But I played no active role in her
life.

She started high school which was a pleasant surprise. Apparently
it had been good for her being away; she had learned a lot at the
efterskole and her grades were fine. In the middle of high school
she turned eighteen. She was now an adult in law; I had no more
legal obligations towards her. But the promise I made to Irene
had no termination date. So rather than stopping the financial
support, I increased it because I knew she would now have to pay
full price on a lot of things like transport and so on.

As she was now an adult, I no longer got report sheets from her
school so I didn't know how she was doing. But I read in the
local newspaper the next summer that she had graduated and I
transferred an extra-large amount to her account that month, by
way of a congratulatory gift and in recollection that graduation
parties can be costly. Through an anomaly the bank had forgotten
to cancel my electronic access to Camilla's account. She never
changed banks, so I could keep an eye on her finances and I could
see that she took a gap-year after high school. Her income was
irregular; getting jobs was difficult for all young people, black
makeup or not, so I kept her afloat - ensuring she always had
funds to pay her rent and other expenses. Even some she didn't
know about; she was seemingly unaware that I was still paying her
mobile phone subscription directly for instance.

After the gap year she started on some tertiary education. I
didn't know what she was studying, but I could see from her bank
records that she was now receiving the pitiful, but regular,
State Education Support stipend. She held various jobs on the
side and I continued supplementing so she had a decent standard
of living. I had decided I would carry on doing that until she
graduated, got a real job and started earning a proper wage. Then
I would sever the last link.

__________________________________


My private life was pretty dull. I stayed on as trainer in the
swimming club, and I kept on 'being good'. There were some highly
publicised scandals with trainers abusing and outright molesting
kids in sports clubs; that kind of thing makes me sick and I was
frequently mentioned as the shining example to follow on how to
behave. But the restrictions were only in place as long as I was
actually training people of course. Emma had stopped swimming
long ago, but we occasionally met in town and when her policeman
quite brutally dropped her, she sought me out for a shoulder to
cry on. Said shoulder quite unexpectedly ended up being naked and
in bed. So for a while I got to enjoy her still well trained body
and those spectacular breasts of hers, but we never really found
the spark for anything long-term and we parted as friends when
she moved to another part of the country.

I regretted that the thing with Emma didn't work out. I was 42
and, realistically, my chances of getting a family again (and
even children of my own) were slim. Sure, Emma was fun and the
sex had been good, but we were essentially just lovers meaning
friends who also had sex, not lovers meaning people who were in
love. And I knew from experience that the strains children can
put on a relationship could be dire. It was only because Irene
and I had been so utterly and completely in love that our
relationship survived the turbulent six years we were given.
Possibly having children together could have given Emma and me
the kind of bond that never breaks. Just as possible, and sadly
more likely, having a child could have fast-tracked an
acrimonious split. So we didn't do it.

We stayed in touch for a while, but then she met someone who, I
guess, was a suspicious type so the contact petered out. The last
I heard from her was that she was pregnant and that they were
getting married, in that order. In the letter she tried to
explain why she couldn't invite me for the wedding. When I'd torn
up the sixth or seventh attempt at writing a
congratulations-and-I-understand-completely note, I gave up and
bought a pre-printed card that said essentially that.

My parents had died - in relatively quick succession, and much
too young; they weren't even seventy. The cause of death in both
cases was cancer; the underlying true cause their smoking (which
I'm sure was also the root cause of my life long asthma). On her
death bed my mother complained bitterly that I 'hadn't given her
grandchildren'. It didn't make for the best of endings; I left in
anger and never saw her alive again. Being an only child, funeral
arrangements would have fallen on me alone, but they had both
bequeathed their bodies 'to science', which meant that some
medical students would hone their skills on the cadavers. When
asked if I wanted the bodies returned for funeral or cremated, I
requested the latter and had the urns placed in an unmarked
communal burial site in their municipality. It felt very
business-like. Having pioneered the SKI concept (Spending the
Kids' Inheritance), they left me practically nothing. In fact I
got more family heirlooms, including photographs from my
childhood, from Uncle Hother's estate than from theirs.

Speaking of Uncle Hother's estate, my second cousins - three men
- went ballistic when they belatedly discovered the provisions in
his will. Unlike me, they knew he was wealthy and when they found
out (at the wedding, I think) that he was dead they made
inquiries. The fact that none of them had ever shown any interest
in him alive, much less visited the old boy, was lost on them.
They claimed, rightly, that they were closer connected to him
than me and, wrongly, that he ought to have left the pile to them
and that I must have influenced him unduly. When the loudest of
them threatened legal action on the basis that I must have
'coerced a mentally deficient old man into making a frivolous
will', I let Uncle Hother's lawyer explain the truth to them. The
lawsuit came to nothing, of course, but I lost all contact with
the three of them (not a loss, really) and their families (a pity
- I liked their wives and children).

To boot, my only first cousin had moved to New Zealand. We had
previously been quite close; now the contact was reduced to
annual Christmas letters. (They were rather repetitive - there is
only so much one can write about sheep farming and swimming
coaching.) So yeah, my private life was pretty dull and quite
lonesome really. I had lots of friends and acquaintances in the
community, but, apart from my boss, no-one I was close to.

__________________________________


I was gloomily reviewing all this - over a pot of tea; I drink
alcohol very sparingly and never alone - one evening in late
spring when the phone rang. It was the police in a neighbouring
precinct, and the message for me was disturbing. "Mr. George
Nielsen?" the policeman asked. "This is Senior Sergeant Poulsen.
There is a Camilla Hansen in the intensive care unit at the
hospital here. We believe she is some kind of relation of yours?"

"She is," I said shocked. "What's happened?"

"She's been in a serious car accident," the policeman replied.
"Her companion, the driver, is dead and she's in a pretty bad
state."

Two questions came to the fore "Will she live?" I asked first;
that being the most important.

"She is listed as 'critical but stable'," the policeman replied.
"She was operated on for hours and hours. Sorry; it took us some
time to locate you."

Her condition sounded bad but not quite catastrophic and his
unwarranted apology naturally lead me to ask the other pressing
question. "Don't be sorry. How did you find me at all?" I was
genuinely surprised that there would be anything in Camilla's
possessions linking her to me.

"We did a next-of-kin search on her which came up blank," he
replied. True enough; her grandparents were also gone now. "But
her mobile phone is registered in your name so we thought we
should call you," he continued.

I felt strangely disappointed. It wasn't anything active on
Camilla's part that had located me after all. I pulled myself
together. "Quite right," I said. "Thanks. I'll come right away."

"Thank you sir," the policeman said. "I'll let the hospital know
you are coming."

I threw myself in the car and hastened out in the night. I did a
lot of thinking on the way to the neighbouring town. It is
approximately the same size as ours, and only about 30 km away.
By my way of reckoning, if Camilla was doing a three-year degree
then she would be just weeks from graduating and my involvement,
however distant, about to end for good. Now everything was thrown
up in the air. I realised that I was desperate for her to live. I
realised I had always loved her, even if she didn't love me back.
She was all the family I had, however unusual. It wasn't just the
promise to Irene that kicked in; I wanted her to be happy, to be
successful, to get on with life.

Instead she was now in an intensive care unit in a small hospital
somewhere - and not with more than a tenuous grip on life from
the sounds of it.

The people at the hospital were accommodating. My confused
explanation about 'having been married to her mother' - for lack
of a direct kinship term to describe our relations - was accepted
with indifferent but friendly nods. Sure, so I had been the
patient's guardian after the mother died; that was unimportant.
She was an adult now. She was seriously hurt. She had no kin and
I cared for her. Fine. Come along and see her and the doctors
will tell you what the status is.

Looking at an unconscious, heavily bandaged person in an ICU ward
doesn't tell you much. There were liquids in bags and pipes and
wires and machinery and strange sounds. What I registered was
that her head looked largely uninjured from the outside, if
bruised and swollen - which the doctor confirmed, but they
suspected a severe concussion - and that while she still had all
her limbs, they all seemed to be broken. Again confirmed; her
right femur had been a puzzle requiring lots of metal, but she
should regain the use of the leg. I asked about her spine; they
assured me it was fine. I asked them about her internal organs;
they told me she was a mess - a ruptured spleen and a lung
punctured by three splintered ribs. They added that her pelvis
had been splintered too and put together again with a dozen or so
surgical screws and that her bladder had some healing to do, but
that her fertility would be intact. For some reason that piece of
information seemed vitally important to me. I wanted Camilla to
be a mother one day.

They kept her in an induced coma to give her body a chance to
recover and to rest her badly shaken brain. It would be several
days before they were going to let her wake up - if she could
wake up, that is. But otherwise they were unconcerned. Her
injuries were no longer life threatening. From a trauma point of
view she was a 'keeper'.

__________________________________


I spent the night in a small mouldy room they had for relatives
and early in the morning I called my boss. "Erik," I said. "Don't
expect to see me for a while. I need some compassionate leave."

Erik was unperturbed. "Sure George," he said drily. "Last time I
checked you had about two years worth of unused holidays and
overtime so I think that will be OK. What's up?"

I told him. He whistled softly

"Listen, I know you well enough to know that you never go back on
a promise," he started. "But honestly George, she is, what, 23?
You haven't even seen her in something like six or seven years.
What makes you think she wants to have anything to do with you
now?"

Erik could ask such questions. We were great friends; although
quite a bit older, he'd been my Best Man at Irene's and my
wedding. He was a good and caring boss - and I was a good and
loyal worker. His company was thriving, in no small part due to
my work. He knew that and in return he had made me modestly
wealthy. I had a high salary and a substantial holding in the
company through share options.

And obviously he knew all about Camilla. So he also knew the
answer to the question himself; no point in pretending.

"Nothing Erik, nothing," I conceded. "But until she has told me
she doesn't want me and told me to go away, I'll be there for
her."

"OK, keep me posted," Erik said. We arranged that I would check
e-mail and work on two critical projects from home if and when I
could, but he would not expect me at work for a while.

I started up my computer, but not to work. I've been writing
stories and 'published' them on the Internet under a pseudonym:
They are pure fiction. Now I started to write down my own story -
this story. It felt therapeutic.

I considered finding a motel close to the hospital, but with only
30 km to drive, I decided I might as well sleep at home. I made
arrangements with the hospital that they should call me, day or
night, if there was even the slightest change in Camilla's
condition and they promised to do so. During the week we had a
couple of minor crises. The injured lung was filled with liquid
and Camilla needed additional surgery for that. She also got a
fever, but a course of antibiotics brought that under control.
Around ten days after the accident, they removed the feeding tube
so she would be able to talk and stopped administering the drug
that kept her in an induced coma - and we started waiting for her
to wake up.

I wasn't there when it happened. It was at three in the morning
and the staff thought I wasn't literally to be called 'day or
night'. By the time I arrived at eight she was in deep sleep
again. When told of the night's developments, I used language
that could leave them in no doubt that I was to be taken
literally. When they had recovered from the shock, they told me
all that had happened was that Camilla had asked where she was.
They had told her and asked her if she knew who she was and if
she could remember anything. The first was affirmative, the
second was negative. She complained of pain and dizziness so they
had given her pain-killers that would make her sleep.

When she woke up the second time I was sitting next to her bed,
holding her left hand - the only limb available to me. Her left
elbow was broken, but the hand was fine. She opened her eyes,
flinched at the light and closed them again. But she was awake.
She moaned a bit, and then mumbled something. I gently squeezed
her hand. "Hush sweetheart - you've been badly hurt, but you will
be fine again," I think I said. Or soothing words to that effect.
She tried to move her head towards the sound, but her neck was in
a protective collar and she couldn't quite manage to see me.

"Kasper?" she asked quite clearly. I knew that the young man who
had been in the car with her was called Kasper.

"No sweetheart, Kasper's not here," I said. I wasn't sure if she
should be told he was dead - or if I should be the one telling
her. I had no idea what the nature of their relationship had
been.

"I told him he shouldn't drive," she said. "He'd had much too
much to drink."

I knew that was true. Although they shouldn't have, the police
had quietly informed me that Camilla's companion had been at
least three times over the legal limit.

"He paid the price for it I'm afraid," I said quietly - her
assertion about Kasper's condition making it obvious to me that
her head was clearing.

"You mean he died?" she asked.

I had to make up my mind. Starting out with lies or evasive
answers seemed like a poor idea. "Instantly," I replied. "He
didn't suffer." That was definitely true; the impact had been so
violent that he'd been decapitated, but that I would keep from
her.

"Oh," she said. Then she added "Who are you then? How come you're
here?"

"I've come back like a pad penny," I said, not sure that she'd
recognize me from that alone.

She did. "George?" she asked - with incredulity in her voice.

"Uh huh," I replied.

Before we could get further a doctor and a nurse came in - they
had registered activity on their equipment. "You mustn’t agitate
the patient," the nurse said. "And you should have told us she
was awake."

"That makes us even then," I said coldly and left the room.

__________________________________


Her recovery was slow. She was in a lot of pain and completely
handicapped - she needed help for everything. I spent as many
hours with her as the hospital would let me, but we didn't talk
all that much for the first week after she woke up. Then a change
happened.

"The doctor is furious that you told me Kasper was dead," she
said one day.

"I don't care about the doctor. What do you think?" I asked.

"I would have found out sooner or later," she said. "I'm glad you
didn't lie to me."

"That's what I thought. Were you close to him?" I asked

"Kasper? Kind of," she replied. "I mean, we weren't living
together or anything. I haven't even met his parents - and they
haven't asked after me, as far as I can figure out."

I had found that strange too; if it had been Camilla who died and
Kasper who survived I would have been asking after him, I
thought. I really didn't know. "Don't expect parents losing a
child acting normally," I eventually said.

"I suppose not," she agreed. "It must be even worse than a child
losing a parent."

I found the conversation strangely unsettling - it was the first
time the two of us had ever talked about anything personal. And
we were quickly getting close to some core issues. I didn't quite
know what to say, so we remained silent. But it was good silence
- not awkward.

She must have thought something similar; her last comment before
I left was "I suppose there is more than one way of losing a
child."

She was looking straight at me when saying that. I went for
broke. "Sometimes what's been lost can be found again," I said.
Then I left.

After that we talked about almost everything. Still not the core
issues; it was like we couldn't quite get to our shared past. But
me being there meant something to her. "I would go mad if you
didn't come and talk to me," she said one day. "I'm lying here
being able to do absolutely nothing and I have no idea if I ever
will; you are my only link to the real world." She was thinking
for a while, and then added "And you are the only one who knows
anything about my past."

I was hoping she would elaborate on that, but she didn't. So I
asked her about school and high school and her tertiary
education. It turned out she had decided to become a primary
school teacher. She had done all her theoretical and some of the
practical training. She was due to hand in her thesis and have
one more exam in June, then have another practical placement at a
school after the holidays, and then she would graduate. "I
suppose that will be put on hold for a while," she said - there
was more resignation than bitterness in her voice, which I found
encouraging.

"Obviously," I said. "But it won't go anywhere - it will still be
there when you're better. I can let your college know what's
happened so they can take the necessary formal action."

"Would you?" she asked - and I detected gratitude in her voice.

"Sure," I said. "Tell me the name of your college and I'll get in
touch."

It was the local teacher's college, so I went there in person.
The college secretary showed ordinary human kindness and
expressed dismay at Camilla's accident, sorrow that there had
been a fatality and a practical approach to the realities of
Camilla's new situation. "I'll get in touch with the primary
school that was expecting Camilla after the holidays," the
secretary said, "so they can make other arrangements. We also
need a formal doctor's certificate, but the hospital should be
able to issue that. Then Camilla will be on indefinite sick-leave
from her studies until she is well enough to resume them."

"Provided she ever gets well enough," I said - voicing a concern
I would never contemplate openly in Camilla's presence.

"Yes, of course," the secretary agreed. "But listen - provided
she regains the use of her hands and some sort of mobility she
can teach. She wouldn't be the first primary school teacher in a
wheel chair. What matters is attitude; she is one of our top
students with sky-high grades and amazing feedback from the
schools where she did the initial practical training. She is a
teacher."

"Thank you; that is most gratifying to hear," I said.

"You didn't know?" the secretary asked surprised. I had presented
myself as 'Camilla's mother's husband,' which once more worked
well enough.

"No, I didn't," I replied with absolute honesty. "When the police
rang me after the accident and I went to the hospital and found
her unconscious in intensive care, it was the first time I'd seen
her in over six years."

"Ouch," the woman said. "That must have been a shock."

"It was," I agreed. "But I'd rather have her like she is now than
not at all. We're moving slowly, but we're moving towards each
other."

"She will be glad of you," the secretary said. "My niece says you
are a fantastic motivator."

"I'm sorry," I said startled. "Do you know me?"

"Of course I know of you - you are Yvonne's swimming coach," she
replied. "But I didn't know you were Camilla's step-father."

Jeez, I am just too well known sometimes! "Well, technically I'm
not," I said with a smile. "I am Camilla's mother's widower -
Camilla never wanted me as her dad."

"Right now I don't think it really matters what you are to her,
as long as you are there," the secretary said and I took my leave
much lighter at heart.

Telling Camilla what the secretary had said about her skills
brought us both joy. She lit up in a smile that took my breath
away. The swelling and bruising of her face was now mostly gone
and she looked very pretty - and distractingly like Irene when we
first met. Her hair was back at its natural dirty-blonde colour.
It was fairly short - which means it must have been very short at
the time of the accident, and her eyes were exactly the same hue
of blue that I remembered in Irene. Her face was lean; she'd
still had some puppy fat at sixteen. What the rest of her body
looked like, I didn't know. But her face was so like that of
Irene's that I feared I would be calling her that.

I didn't mention the discussion about what she could do if she
was wheel-chair bound for long or even the rest of her life, but
she brought it up herself. "It is nice they are so accommodating.
I love teaching - I'm sure I've chosen the right profession.
Besides, it is something I can still do even if I never recover
completely."

"True," I concurred. "But you will. Remember that your spine is
intact; the rest is 'just' training," I said, using both hands to
make inverted commas when saying 'just'.

She smiled wryly. "I'd like to think that too," she said. "And
right now all I can do is to think about it."

__________________________________


By the time Camilla's treatment was 'over' from a hospital point
of view - her lung all better, the stitches from the numerous
operation wounds removed and no further signs of infections or
other problems, they wanted to send her home. Essentially they
wanted to get rid of her; they weren't geared for this kind of
patient. But she was still completely helpless. She couldn't
walk; partly because both her legs were still in plaster, partly
because her pelvis was only just starting to heal. And she
couldn't use her hands. Well, she had partial use of one hand -
her left, but the arm was plastered from wrist to shoulder and
she couldn't move it much. The right arm was in a high plaster
cast too and her right thumb only slowly recovering from a bad
spraining. Oh, and she was totally incontinent (urinary; she
never had problems with her bowels luckily, but she obviously
couldn't go to the toilet herself.) "I can scratch my nose.
Almost," is how she summed up her functional ability.

But still they wanted to send her home. Despite her protests -
and mine - she could not be transferred to physical
rehabilitation 'for some time'. The municipality would 'consider'
having someone visiting her at home three times a day -
essentially to feed her, get her out of bed and into a wheel
chair in the morning and back again at night plus a minimal
amount of help with personal hygiene. The fact that her chances
of making a complete recovery, and thus of becoming a productive
member of society, was 100% dependent on immediate intensive
around-the-clock physical therapy seemed lost on them. Basically
because that was somebody else's budget. They offered nothing but
a shrug by way of reaction to the information that Camilla's
present apartment - still the youth dwelling - was on the second
floor of a building with no lift and no provisions for
wheel-chair access.

I blew my top. "She is coming home with me," I yelled. "But not
one second before the house is ready for it. Give me two weeks.
Until then she stays here and you will start her in therapy, or
you will all be patients in intensive care. I guarantee that. Now
get out! I need to talk to Camilla." Embarrassed they left.

Camilla was staring at me like I had two heads. "What's happening
here George?" she asked.

"I am helping you, whether you like it or not," I said tersely.
"You'll move back home with me. I will help you with everything
until you are able to look after yourself."

"Everything?" she asked, and there was a strange tone to her
voice.

"Everything!" I confirmed. "Those things I cannot do myself, like
the physiotherapy, I'll get people to do. But I will want to
learn to help with that too, and otherwise: Everything."

"What about your job?" she asked.

"I've talked to my boss - Erik, you might remember him. He's fine
with me working from home," I said. "When I occasionally must be
out of the house for meetings I'll get someone to look after
you."

"Like a babysitter?" she asked.

"In a way," I conceded, "but for an absolute minimal amount of
time. I'll take care of everything else."

"What about the, you know, personal, I mean, hygiene kind of
thing..." she trailed off.

"What about it?" I asked - I fear I must have sounded almost
irritated.

"I'm wearing nappies!" she blurted out. "And I will be until my
bladder recovers. It could take ages."

"Who cares?" I said. "I've changed your sisters often enough when
they were small. Anne was still wet at night when your mother
died. I can do you; it doesn't worry me."

To my consternation tears were running down her cheeks. "What is
it?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing," she said. "Nothing." She couldn't look at me. The
sound of her crying had stopped, but her chest was heaving.

Before I could ask any more questions Camilla's food arrived
along with the carer who would feed her. I decided to leave; I
had a lot of phone calls to make. I made a friendly wave and
started to walk out.

When I was nearly out the door, Camilla called me back. "George?"
she said in that strange voice I had never heard before. "Thank
you."

I know for certain this was the first time in sixteen years she
had ever thanked me for anything.

__________________________________


I started making phone calls already on the way home in the car.
Having been a swimming trainer for over sixteen years my network
is extensive. Amongst my swimmers I've had many whose parents
were tradesmen, or who have become tradesmen themselves. And I
hoped that I had built up credit that would enable me to call in
some favours. I was not disappointed; less than an hour after I'd
gotten home, three carpenters from two different firms, a plumber
and an electrician came out to my house. One of the carpenters
and the plumber had recently worked on a housing estate for
people with physical handicaps and they pretty much knew what had
to be done - in terms of removing door steps, replacing certain
doors with sliding doors with electrical actuators, putting
long-armed handles on taps, mounting supports at toilets and
showers and so on. The electrician had never worked on such
projects, but he was a quick witted an imaginative lad and he
suggested that we should replace all the light switches with
remote controlled switches, or room sensors in bathrooms and so
on. The others confirmed that was exactly the technologies used
in the housing estate they had worked on.

I wanted the entire house accessible to Camilla, or she might
feel imprisoned, and one of them suggested that we should make it
possible for her to go outside on the terrace too. Next we were
all outside studying the access to the front and terrace doors at
the back and before I knew it the plumber had called a chap he
knew who did landscaping and paving. "I don't need a quote - I
just need it done so I can get her home," I said when they were
about to leave.

"That's fine coach," the electrician said. "I'll get started
tomorrow night." He'd been one of my star swimmers for years, but
had recently stopped and was now working as a journeyman in his
uncle's firm.

"Yeah, me too," the plumber said. "If you give me the keys when
I've taken Christina over for training tomorrow night I should be
able to get most of it done. I know we have most of the stuff I
need at the workshop; we also won the maintenance contract on the
handicap dwellings so I have to have spares."

"You mean you're going to do this out-of-hours?" I asked -
pleased, but surprised.

"Sure coach," the electrician said. The plumber nodded.

"Nick will do the doors," the senior carpenter said. "And Benny
and I will be getting on with converting the two small rooms into
that gym. It will be a little bit tricky; we don't want the
ceiling to come down. But we should have an idea about how hard
it is going to be in couple of days.

They were strangely evasive about costs. In the end the only one
I paid the ordinary price was the landscaping and paving man; the
others refused any payment beyond the pure material costs. Not
only that, they took a lot of initiatives on their own helping
the process along. For instance Charlotte, the electrician's
girlfriend was an apprentice painter. She did the redecorating of
the gym room and Camilla's old room - "I'm sure she has outgrown
the pink patterned wall paper," she laughed.

Others helped too without me even having to ask. For instance, I
had frankly completely forgotten about a planning permission for
the landscaping and the conversion of the two smaller rooms. But
the secretary in the swimming club works at the Town Hall and she
got everything ironed out in no time. It turned out that 'living
in the sticks' was not such a bad thing after all; if you give
something to the community then the community helps you back when
you need it.

On the unofficial level that is. When it came to officialdom, a
lot of it was uphill. But I managed to get the municipality to
agree to physical therapy for Camilla several times a week in
exchange for them not having any responsibilities in the personal
care area. That arrangement was highly 'unusual' (and possibly
outright illegal), but I didn't care. I wanted help with the
things I couldn't handle myself; feeding and washing Camilla was
not a problem.

__________________________________


Camilla didn't have personal accident insurance - I cursed myself
for not arranging that; I had paid for other insurances but
somehow forgotten accidents. So I saw no other option than suing
Kasper's estate. Third party accident insurance is compulsory in
Denmark, but Kasper's insurance company tried to wrangle their
way out of it by claiming Camilla was at fault for getting into
the car with a drunk driver in first place. I had made it clear
to Kasper's grieving relatives that the suit was purely technical
which they understood. Kasper hadn't told them about Camilla (the
relationship was apparently that new) and they were distraught to
hear about her injuries - and of not knowing about her, and thus
doing nothing in terms of asking after her, or having her at the
funeral. I assured them she understood, and besides, she was in
no fit state to go anywhere for a long time.

But as I said, his relatives were fine about us going after the
insurers for money. I obviously had to make sure that Camilla
never told anybody what she'd told me, namely that she knew
Kasper was drunk. "Listen," I said. "There is nothing personal in
this. We just have to make sure his insurers pay up." She agreed
and stuck to the line that she had no idea he'd been anywhere
near the limit, much less above.

Their host at the party - incidentally the boyfriend of another
of my old swimmers - was more than willing to swear he believed
Kasper was fit to drive when they left. Recently there had been
attempts at widening legal responsibility for drunk driving, and
he was keen to avoid trouble. Presented with this front of
'evidence', the insurers decided to settle. Still it didn't come
to very much; the cover was dependent on the long-term disability
level, and we were obviously keen to get that as low as possible.
And while that was in their interest too, they were not obliged
to contribute very much towards achieving that goal. But at least
we got something.

Besides, if not exactly rich, I was modestly wealthy and the
conversions of my house and grounds cost much less than I had
anticipated due to the community action. So I could afford to buy
a hospital-type bed for Camilla and equip the new 'gym' (made up
from what used to be Anne's and Lisa's adjacent rooms) with all
the equipment we would need to help Camilla regain her mobility.

For the time being she had none. I had another wrangle-fest with
the municipal authorities over a wheel chair. They were only
willing to issue her with a cheap standard chair. I pointed out
that in that case they had to provide the propulsion in the shape
of a 24/7 minder. When the screaming and yelling had subsided, I
added that I was sure they would find the alternative - a fully
electric chair, joystick controlled by Camilla's left hand, a
much cheaper solution. They refused, referring to the previous
agreement about not contributing to the personal care. How
pushing a wheel chair and wiping a bum could be considered the
same thing is beyond my understanding, but they wouldn't budge.
Not until I showed the head of department and her political boss
a damaging front-page article and accompanying editorial ready to
be printed in the local newspaper. Only then did they back down
in a hurry and agree to pay for the hire of the fancy wheel
chair. Once more I'd drawn on 'connections' - the editor's
daughter was one of my swimming girls. An upcoming municipal
election also helped.

The last detail was a car. While we were a family, I always had
'sensible' family cars - boring estate wagons with lots of room
for kids and luggage. Since I'd been alone I had returned to my
love for classical English sports cars. My 1957 wire-wheel MG-A
is my pride and joy, but it is, to put it mildly, not wheel chair
friendly. Once more help was forthcoming and I didn't even have
to ask for it. One of the swimming club's main sponsors (in more
ways than one - three of his kids have been active in the club)
is a local car dealer. He rang me one evening, when scuttlebutt
had spread the news that 'Coach George would be caring for
Camilla', and said he'd located a second hand French mini-MPV I
might be interested in. Now, the Citroën Berlingo is arguably one
of the ugliest cars ever built, but it is practical workhorse and
this one had a hydraulic lift for a wheel chair. It sounded like
just the thing. "Buy it for me!" I exclaimed.

"I already did," he said drily. "The mechanics are just making it
ready. If you take the bus or your bike into swimming training
tomorrow night you can drive it home."

The price he mentioned was very low - it turned out I got it a
cost. I was profuse in my gratitude. "That's OK George," he said.
"And listen. When they day comes you don't need it anymore I'll
help you sell it again. I fervently pray that will be soon."

I guess my eyes were a little moist after that. And don't
stereotype second hand car dealers in my presence ever; you might
get hurt.

__________________________________


So it came to be that exactly two weeks after my outburst at the
hospital, I went to collect Camilla. With me I had the chair and
Claus, a technician from the handicap aids firm (and - you
guessed it - another ex-swimmer) who instructed Camilla in the
use of the chair. She is a quick learner; from when she was
lifted out of her bed and into it, until she lined it up neatly
next to the lift on the Berlingo, she had mastered it. Claus was
pleasantly surprised and also complimented Camilla on her body
control. The hospital had taken heed of my insistence that
physical therapy should start at once. With four limbs in plaster
casts of varying severity and with a slowly healing pelvis, there
isn't much you can do. But a gentle exercise regime to train the
back and abdominal muscles was possible and it helped her sitting
upright in the chair without having to be strapped in like a
complete vegetable.

"I'll leave you two to it then," Claus said cheerfully and drove
off.

So did we. I guess we were both nervous, throwing ourselves out
on deep water and with no idea where the other shore was, or if
we would ever reach it. "How long have you had this car?" Camilla
asked - just to say something, I guess.

"I picked it up three days ago," I replied. "A friend of mine
called Jens found it for me."

"Who's he?" Camilla asked.

"Jens Tholstrup? He has the Citroën dealership in town," I
replied. "And he is one of the main sponsors for the swimming
club."

"Tholstrup, as in the father of Lena Tholstrup?" Camilla asked -
Lena was one of her former class mates in the city school.

"Yes, that's the one," I replied.

"Lena who was so in love with you?" Camilla asked - and I sensed
just a touch of something dark below the cheerful voice.

"That's new to me," I replied with complete honesty. "I trained
her in the swimming club for years without noticing anything like
that."

"You are just too dense sometimes," Camilla said - this time
without any hint of malice. "She only started swimming because
you were the trainer. Half the girls did. At least half."

'Oh!' I thought. Lena had certainly not shown any particular
talent, but she'd been very, very keen. And her two younger
siblings had done quite well. Oh well, I wasn't supposed to
notice if my swimming kids had a 'pash' on me, was I?

"Well, what would you know!" I said, for lack of a better reply.

"You obviously didn't," Camilla said with a laugh that was pure
mirth.

We got home. Her nervousness turned to pure wonder when she saw
what had been done - from the landscaping that allowed her to get
easily to the front door, through all the little changes to the
house - I fastened a remote control for the doors and the
electrical systems to her wheel chair with Velcro straps and
asked her to work it out herself - to the changes to her room.

"That's really nice," she said. "Who did this?"

"A girl called Charlotte," I said. "She's the electrician's
girlfriend and an apprenticed painter."

"Very nice," Camilla repeated. "I was half expecting
princess-pink wallpaper still."

"I hope you are not too disappointed?" I asked with mock worry.

"Hardly!" she said. "That furniture looks familiar, by the way."

She was referring to what I'd placed in her room besides the
hospital bed.

"Yeah, I emptied out your apartment in the youth dwelling complex
last weekend - the rest of your stuff is in the spare room," I
said more than a little worried. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, that's cool," she said. "I didn't expect to be going back
there anyway. It wouldn't work the way I am now and by the time
I'm better I will have moved on from the clientele there."

"True," I agreed - more than a little relieved that she took it
that way, and immensely pleased that she talked about 'when' she
got better, not 'if'.

__________________________________


I showed her the rest of the house, especially the bathroom that
had been adapted to her needs. For the time being she was
completely helpless, but as soon as her arms were free of the
casts we could start training her up to be able to handle toilet
visits herself. She was amazed by the 'gym' - her sisters' former
rooms had combined into a respectable size and once more
Charlotte had decorated it with flair. There was a mirror wall
and the room was light and airy.

"This is so cool," she said. There were a selection of gym
machines and a massage bench. "I'm so looking forward to be able
to start using those," she said pointing at them with her left
hand.

"Me too," I agreed. "We'll talk to the physiotherapist when she
comes tomorrow. And Elsebeth from the sports centre has promised
to do some deep massaging and teach me to do it too."

"Bliss!" Camilla said.

We had dinner - I had prepared something light that was easy to
feed her. "Yum," Camilla said. "You were always such a good cook
- much better than Mum." She suddenly broke down crying. I
thought it was the memory of her mother, but I was wrong. "I wish
I had told you that back then," she sobbed.

"It's OK love," I said. "I'm glad you told me now."

She sniffled and we got on with dinner, then moved to the living
room chatting.

Shortly after she started squirming a bit. "I need the toilet,"
she said, biting her lip.

"Sure," I replied. I knew that she meant her bowels - but
besides, it was hours since we left the hospital; she would be
drenched and in need of a change. She wheeled her chair out to
her bathroom and I got her up in a semi-standing position;
mercifully she was able to stand even if she could neither get up
herself nor stand for long. She was wearing a wrap-around skirt,
the most practical garment for her state, and I got the heavy
nappy off of her and manoeuvred her to the toilet which had been
raised a good fifteen inches to make it easier for both of us.
Even with four plaster casts she was light; I had no difficulties
moving her about and told her so.

But she was not happy about the situation. "I am so sorry you
have to do this," she started and tears were welling up in her
eyes, but I stopped her.

"I'm not, and we can't be embarrassed about this," I said. "I
would have done it sixteen years ago had you needed me to and I
will do it now."

Unaccountably she started to cry openly and was still crying when
I left her with a "Call me when you're done."

She did, and I got her back semi-standing and wiped her, but
suggested I could take care of her better on her bed - with a
proper change table not available. Blushingly she agreed and she
wheeled into her room and let me move her onto the bed after I
covered it with a rubber sheet. She wasn't exactly hairy, but it
had obviously been a while since she had 'trimmed the bush'. "Are
you very attached to your pubic hair?" I asked lightly after I
had washed her thoroughly.

"No, but it is attached to me," she replied flippantly and the
laugh we shared eased the tension. "Why?" she asked.

"Because wearing a nappy gives the same problems for babies and
adults alike when it comes to the risk of a rash," I replied.
"Only, having hair in that area compounds the problems for an
adult."

"Oh. Well, it ought to go then, but I can't really shave it
myself," she said, trying to wave her plastered arms.

"Duh," I replied and went to find shaving cream and a razor.

To claim that shaving her didn't affect me would be a lie.
Especially because she was obviously very affected by it. Her sex
became swollen and her prominent clit - a feature she had
inherited from her mother - got quite erect. When I massaged the
baby cream into her skin - making sure I reached every fold, her
breathing was laboured and eventually her body shook.

Neither of us said anything for a little while - I was shocked
that what was simply meant to be taking care of a matter of
hygiene had turned into a very erotic act. I put a nappy on her
and she sighed contentedly.

"I think I want to sleep now," she said.

"Sure," I replied. "Can you sleep in that tee-shirt?"

"Yes," she replied, "but I want my bra off."

More temptations! "I fear I can't do the girl-trick and get it
off of you with the tee-shirt still on," I said and struggled to
get just the tee-shirt off. Even though it was over-sized, the
casts on her arms made it difficult. "Perhaps you should sleep in
one of my shirts," I suggested.

"Mmmm," she said dreamily. "Girls like that!"

I decided to take that as a joke and made a little laugh. "I'll
go get one and get your toothbrush on the way," I said.

I returned with the shirt - a soft flannel thing I rarely use -
and did her teeth. "You still haven't taken my bra off," she said
with a strange little smile after she gargled and spat in the
bowl I'd brought.

"No," I replied, unsure what she was up to and more than a little
unsettled. I reached behind her and undid her bra, liberating her
large firm breasts. Her nipples, on the large side for a woman
who hadn't nursed a baby, were standing very erect. They begged
to be touched, but I restrained myself.

I gently got the 'night shirt' on her and lifted her into the
bed. I - just - resisted the urge to kiss her, but tucked her in;
she couldn't do that herself of course. She fell asleep almost
instantly.

Sleep came more reluctantly to me. I had now seen all of
Camilla's body, or at least the parts not covered by plaster
casts. She was drop-dead gorgeous. She reminded me so much of her
mother when we first met that it hurt - and I was so erect that
it hurt. Slightly ashamed, more than a little confused and
anxious of what the future would bring, I masturbated myself to
sleep.

__________________________________


I had reasons to worry, even if things developed quite
differently from what I could have imagined. Next morning
everything seemed fine. Superficially, at least, but my peace of
mind quickly deteriorated.

I am an early riser and was sitting in the kitchen drinking tea
and getting a bit of work done when I heard Camilla call my name
very quietly. "Good morning!" she said with a huge smile when I
entered her room. "I hoped you were awake. I'm starving!"

"I was awake," I replied. "Besides, if you need me for anything
just call. I am a fairly light sleeper, but perhaps we should rig
up some kind of bell?"

She thought about that for a minute. "Perhaps," she said. "I
don't want to ruin your sleep, but I am so utterly helpless at
the moment..."

She trailed off.

"That's fine sweetheart," I said and meant it. "Hopefully you
will be less so soon, but until then, call me anytime."

I had brought a bowl of lukewarm water and a washer and set to
work changing her soaked nappy. I was being quick and
business-like; no repeat of last night's more intimate touching -
just whatever was necessary to get the job done.

I fastened the fresh nappy. She had gone very quiet and when I
looked up big fat tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Misinterpreting the reason, I tried to reassure her. "Honestly
sweetheart, I don't mind. And it is only temporary - so don't be
embarrassed about it!"

"It's not that," she sobbed. "It's..."

Her crying drowned the continuation.

"It's what?" I prompted gently.

"You always did that for Lisa and Anne in the mornings!" she
finally said. "I so wanted you to do that for me too! I wanted to
be your little girl too. I so hated being 'big and sensible'."

Now that the floodgates had burst, she got it all out. "I even
tried to wet myself so I would be put back in nappies, but I
couldn't. I was trained too well. I would drink lots of water
before bed, but I would always go to the toilet when I woke up
bursting to pee. Once or twice my panties got slightly wet, but I
just couldn't make myself wet the bed."

She sniffled a bit. "A couple of years ago I, um, experimented a
bit with nappies. But wetting them didn't do anything for me.
What I wanted was for someone - you, to be precise - to change me
and look after me."

"Oh sweetheart," I said, gently stroking her hair. "If only I had
known."

"Mum would have gone ballistic," Camilla started.

"Quite possibly," I agreed. "I'm sure she would not have
appreciated that kind of regression at the time."

Camilla smiled briefly through the tears. "No, that's what I
mean, but..." She trailed off.

"I know what you're going to say," I second guessed her. "She
would have preferred a few wet beds and a pack or two of
extra-large Pampers over what happened instead?"

I shouldn't have said that, or at least not in that way - it
really hit home. She cried fit to break my heart. It is pretty
difficult to hold and comfort someone who has four limbs in
casts, but I tried my best. "I ruined her life," she wailed. "She
must have hated me in the end."

"Camilla!" I said quite sharply. "She did nothing of the sort!"

I realised I had never had a chance to tell Camilla about Irene's
last days. I had never told it to anyone and I felt a burning
desire to share it. To share the burden, perhaps - I don't know.
And of all people Camilla, had a right to know. In a much softer
voice I continued "The last words she ever spoke were about you,
about her concern for you if she didn't survive."

"Really?" Camilla sniffled.

"Really," I replied. "She knew your little sisters would be fine
with their dad and his new family. But you had no one. She asked
me to look after you. Begged me. She was hoping to the last that
we would find each other."

In hindsight that was clumsy and insensitive. I offer no excuse,
only the explanation that, a decade later, I was still hurting so
much from the tragedy myself that I was incapable of imagining
how Camilla would react.

She reacted badly. The crying returned and intensified in a
terrifying way. Camilla was actually heaving for breath; I could
see her wince from the pain in her ribs when she drew ragged
breath. She eventually got a little calmer. "I so wanted that to
happen, but I couldn't let go," she sobbed. "I wanted you to get
angry, to tell me off, to force me to be reasonable. You never
did. You were always patient. You never snapped, you never
yelled, you never scolded, you never..."

She stopped. She couldn't look at me. In a voice so low I could
barely hear her, in something barely above a whisper, she said
"You never loved me. You looked after me because of Mum. You
never loved me because of me."

The heaving and sobbing didn't return. Instead she was weeping
almost noiselessly, but her whole body was shaking.

Anguish. That's what I felt; anguish. "Camilla," I said - called
her, actually. She didn't respond. I repeated a bit louder.
"Camilla, look at me!"

She slowly turned her head towards me. Her eyes may be blue, but
looking into them I saw a deep black pit of despair.

"Camilla," I said. "I do love you for you. It is true that I got
to know you because of your mother. And it is also true that I
tried to look after you because of my promise to your mother -
and even true that I came to the hospital after the police rang
because of that promise. But that is only a part of truth. I have
always loved you for you. Loved you as much as you would let me.
Quite a bit more than you would let me, actually." The latter I
said in a very low voice, but she heard me.

"Do you really love me?" she asked. "Me? After I made your life a
misery?"

"You were hurting," I said. "You were not evil."

"I think I was," she said.

"And I don't!" I replied. "Besides, the image I had, the memories
I had, when the police called was of a puppy-fat sultry sixteen
year old with unnatural pale skin, black hair and makeup and 'an
attitude'. What I found was a bright, sweet, beautiful young
woman. The last month has been fantastic. I have so enjoyed being
with you."

She looked startled. "I know that sounds dreadful," I added. "You
were kind of a captive audience, but for the first time in a very
long time I haven't felt lonely."

"Oh God," she said. "You have no idea how I have enjoyed having
you around constantly, only I thought you were only doing it for
the memory of Mum, not for me."

The tears returned, but this time without the desperate misery. I
held her left hand for a little while, and then I leaned in
closely. Our eyes met and I kissed her lightly on the lips. "I do
love you, you know. Now, let's get some breakfast." I lifted her
up into the chair and she followed me into the kitchen.

__________________________________


After breakfast I got her dressed - again just a wrap-around
skirt and another of my shirts over her bra. While it is possible
to take off a bra without touching the breasts, I don't think
that you can put one on without touching. I certainly couldn't,
and her nipples sprang to attention. Doing up the buttons of the
shirt also involved some manual stimulation. She didn't say
anything, but there was a look in her eyes that I found
unsettling.

Late morning the physiotherapist came to visit for the first
time. Karen is slightly older than me and obviously a local girl,
retaining the amusing local dialect. But there was nothing rural
or backwards about her otherwise - she was exceedingly good at
her job. And first and last, her optimism and unfailing good
humour was infectious. I am a swimming trainer and know about the
importance of encouragement. I flatter myself that I am good at
it. Karen was a million times better.

The first meeting was essentially to assess the patient and make
a plan. She was appreciative of the job her colleagues at the
hospital had done and urged Camilla to continue with those
exercises for her stomach and back. "We can't do much more until
those dreaded casts start coming off," she said, "with one
exception - you should do pelvic floor exercises. Constantly!"

"Constantly?" Camilla asked.

"Yes - you should remind each other. It takes a while, but the
benefits are undisputable for both of you."

"For George too?" Camilla asked in manifest confusion. "Why? I'm
the one with weakened bladder muscles! What would it do for him?"

"It gives men stronger and longer-lasting erections - and better
control of ejaculations," Karen said with a glint in her eye. "I
swear half the men that pop Viagra pills to be able to perform
would be better off just doing their Kegels!"

"Oh!" I said. Not that I have ever had problems in that area, but
I had been 'out of action' for some time - and I am obviously not
getting any younger.

"Aha!" Camilla said. "Interesting..."

The two women giggled. I beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen,
mumbling something about making coffee.

When Karen left we had lunch, then Camilla wanted a nap - and I
got a bit of work done. Mid-afternoon, Tenna, one of my senior
swimming girls came over. Tenna had agreed to take over the
training of the younger kids for a while so I wouldn't have to go
out quite so many times every week and I needed to give her
instructions. She had brought Stine, a slightly older friend of
hers (her girlfriend I suspected, but I had never asked) who was
studying nursing and who was willing to look after Camilla those
nights when I was training the seniors. "It's not like you need
to do much," I said. "Camilla will be fed and ready to be put to
bed. But since she can do nothing herself, there has to be
someone around."

"Sure. What about personal hygiene?" Stine asked bluntly. Almost
a nurse and completely no-nonsense, she was ready for anything.

"George is looking after that," Camilla said hastily. "As long as
you can clean my teeth and roll me into bed if I tire before
George is home, I'll be fine."

"OK," Stine said. "Not a problem."

No, it wouldn't be. Stine was large and strong (and more than a
little butch); she could handle Camilla - casts and all. And,
unlikely as it may have seemed, she and Camilla established a
fine friendship quickly. Stine was initially quite unwilling to
take any money for the 'babysitting'. "I am happy to help," she
said to me. "Tenna worships the ground you step on and we can't
be together when she is training anyway. Besides, this is quite
relevant work for a student nurse - I can get credit for it."

Eventually I managed to get her to accept money for the work, but
not until she had pointed out that my training 'job' was unpaid.
"I do that because I like doing it," I said.

"And so?" Stine retorted. "Tenna loves swimming. And I love her.
Why shouldn't I volunteer to help you so you can help Tenna?"

Indeed no. The fact that I was wealthy and the two students were
not, proved to be the decider, but the exchange gave me a lot to
think about.

__________________________________


The next couple of weeks were uneventful. Camilla suffered a
couple of days of mood swings and then had her period. Like ten
years ago she was in agony and being unable to move about, she
suffered even more. "The only thing that ever helps is physical
exercise," she said, "and the only exercises I can do at the
moment are Kegels."

She also suffered another round of embarrassment from having to
have my help with this bodily function too. I tried to reassure
her, and luckily it was over in under three days - which is
probably it why was so painful.

But at the end of the second week, we went to the local hospital
and had the cast taken off the left arm. They X-rayed the right
with a view to 'liberate' that too, but the verdict was that she
needed the cast for another week or two.

Still, freeing one arm of the cast was huge progress. It was very
weak and 'floating' - and the skin looked scaly and awful and
smelled bad, but that night and several times over the weekend we
had her entire arm immersed in lukewarm sudsy water and the next
Monday Karen started the rehabilitation therapy.

Despite being naturally right-handed, having her left arm free
was a major leap forward for Camilla. She was soon able to do a
lot of things, like drinking and eating.

And touching. About the first thing she did when she was able to
control the arm was to pull me in for a kiss. Now certain that
she wanted it, I - happily - accepted the embrace and kissed her
back, tongues and all. At the end we were both panting. When we
broke for air, she ran her hand over my crotch. "I don't think
you really need those Kegel exercises, do you?" she said with a
grin.

"Can't hurt," I replied. "Can't hurt at all."

It was a "bath night" - which had to be done in stages with
washers since we couldn't let the remaining casts get wet.

This meant undressing her completely. I had forgotten towels and
went to fetch them; when I came back she said "You still haven't
taken my bra off," just like the first night and in that same
dreamy voice of hers that inevitably unsettled me

I made up my mind. "I was savouring that for last," I said.

She looked at me quickly. "Savouring?" she asked.

I smiled. "Perhaps we should quit pretending - I think we have to
if we are going to stay sane. I have hitherto done my best not to
touch you in an overtly sexual way, and yet I am pretty sure you
orgasm almost every time I wash your pussy. Right?"

She nodded but didn't say anything. Her cheeks started to colour
though.

"Well, when I said I would look after you I didn't expect it to
include that, but I can't say I'm sorry that I have been bringing
you pleasure," I continued.

She was now blushing deeply.

"Besides, I would be telling lies if I said you were not pleasant
to behold - or to touch."

I took her bra off, cupped both her gorgeous boobs and rolled her
stiffening nipples with my thumps and forefingers.

"I can find no excuse for touching those on a daily basis," I
said pointing to her breast, "but let's just say I am always
looking forward to washing them when it is 'bath night'."

"You are?" she asked in a whimper-like whisper.

"Oh yes," I replied. "Even a gay man would get pleasure from
touching these."

"I don't think you're gay," Camilla panted. "I remember Mum's
screams. The first few times I thought you were hurting her, but
it didn't take me long to work out that she liked what you were
doing. A lot."

"Your Mum loved having her nipples played with too," I said.
"Your breasts are what hers must have been like before she had
three kids."

"Do I look like her?" Camilla asked.

"Very much," I replied. There was an aching longing in my heart.
I am sure it must have been reflected in my voice. "Spitting
image, only younger."

She came. She actually came from having her nipples stimulated.
Later when I washed her pussy after having shaved her, she came
again. Coming down from the high, she reached out with her left
hand to my crotch. "Let me do you too," she said huskily.
"Please. With my hand or mouth or between my boobs. But please
let me return the favour. The many favours." She was almost
pleading.

I hesitated. "I don't think I am ready for that," I eventually
said. "I'm not sure it would be right either."

"Why not?" she asked. "We both want to!"

"Yes, but," I started.

She stopped me. "You're not my dad."

No, I'm not her dad. And for the first time ever I was glad of
the fact. But it was too soon. I kissed her and tucked her in.

"Why?" she started and there were tears in her eyes.

"Not yet," I said - as an answer to an unspoken question, but she
seemed to get it, "We're both adults, but you are dependent on
me. You can't - literally can't - walk out on me if you dislike
anything we do."

There was a half-promise in that. Again, the non-verbal
communication almost conveyed more meaning than the words spoken.
Fortunately she didn't get all of my thoughts per telepathy. Like
my concern that she could have me in a very difficult situation
if she accused me of anything. I would automatically be in the
wrong, no matter what.

I feared she would ask me if I didn't trust her. Instead she lit
up in a smile that made her morph into Irene again. "Can't wait
to get those casts off," she said and settled in to sleep.

__________________________________


Her right arm was 'freed' two weeks later. It was in a worse
state than the left, not only because it has been encased longer
but also because her thumb had been so badly sprained. Between
Karen's physiotherapy and Elsebeth's massaging she slowly started
to regain the use of the arm and hand though.

When it had regained most of its original movement, if still only
a fraction of the strength, she celebrated by pulling me down one
'bath night'. While holding my head close to hers with her left
hand at the back of my neck (and honestly, with the kind of kiss
we were exchanging I had no intention of moving away!), she
sneaked her right hand down to my crotch and massaged my hard-on
through my sweat-pants. For the first time since I was thirteen I
came in my pants. Back then it had been my first girlfriend -
incidentally also called Camilla - who did it. It was kind of
embarrassing since my blue jeans had a large dark spot on them.
This time there was no embarrassment, but my knees nearly buckled
under me when I came.

"First instalment on the repayments," Camilla said airily and let
herself be tucked in.

That night I had no need to beat off; I fell into blissful sleep
at once.

Strength came to Camilla's arms remarkably quickly thanks to the
therapy and after less than a month we could get rid of the fancy
electric wheelchair and replace it with a modern lightweight
manual chair. We decided to hold on to the MPV for a little while
longer, but since the casts on Camilla's legs were due to come
off any day now we were hoping she would soon be able to get in
and out of a car in a normal way.

With her arms and hands free, she became more extroverted. Until
then she had only gone out when she had doctor's appointments and
so on. Now that she was self-propelled in a conventional
wheelchair, she was willing, nay keen, to come shopping with me.
As always I couldn't go anywhere in the local shops without
meeting someone I knew, but so unlike in the past, Camilla
reacted positively to it. "I know he's a fantastic coach," she
would say. "He has been a great motivator for me - getting me
from a vegetable in a fully electric wheelchair to where I am
now. If anyone can get me back on my feet, it's George!" For
those who didn't know our past it was natural, but sweetly
expressed gratitude. For those who did know the baggage, the
change was astonishing.

While she was getting stronger and more independent, I still
didn't like leaving her alone in the evenings when I was coaching
the swimmers. One night Stine was unavailable. She rang to tell
me late in the afternoon. It was just before she would normally
have arrived for me to be able to leave, so the timing was, to
put it mildly, inconvenient. Especially because tonight's
swimming was very important for deciding who the club would be
sending to the national championships. But I wasn't going to
complain - Stine has been very reliable. And besides, she had a
solution. "You can still come in to coach George," she said. "I'm
sending my younger brother's new girlfriend instead."

"Your brother's girlfriend?" I asked, and I fear there must have
been incredulity in my voice. "Do you think she is up to the
responsibility? And what do you think Camilla will say?"

"I think Camilla will be speechless," Stine said with a barely
suppressed chuckle. "And so will you - just wait; she'll be there
on her bike in a few minutes."

Before I could ask any more questions, Stine ended the call. And
three minutes later the doorbell rang. Camilla wheeled her chair
out to open up and I followed. When the door opened, Stine's
prediction held true. Camilla and I were both speechless. Outside
was Lisa.

Naturally Lisa had changed a lot since I saw her last, and unlike
Camilla she takes more after her dad than her mum in looks.
Still, I was in no doubt who it was. And neither was Camilla,
despite having lost contact too when she went to efterskole.
"Lisa!" we exclaimed in unison.

There was a lot of high-pitched squealing going on. I called the
girls to order. "Listen, I really have to go. If you need me for
anything while I'm gone then call my mobile. And please, Lisa,
say that you can hang around for a little while when I get back.
It is so good to see you again!"

She nodded with a huge smile and I ran out to my car. When I got
to the pool both Tenna and Stine were there. "Did you meet up
with someone you haven't seen for a while?" they asked with fake
innocence. It was so obviously a setup they had orchestrated.

I smiled and shook my head. "You two!" I chided. "And I really
believed it when Stine said she was unavoidably detained."

"Oh but I am," Stine said in an innocent little-girl voice very
much at odds with her nature and appearance. "I had to be here
tonight so see Tenna qualify for the national championships."

She was not disappointed. Tenna swam her best time ever and
easily qualified. Two months later at the championships she swam
even better, winning the gold medal and setting a new national
record. On TV afterwards she attributed her success to 'the love
and support of the two most important people in my life - my
trainer and my girlfriend'. I bawled my eyes out. And it is
perhaps a testimony to how far Denmark has come that no-one
reacted badly to Tenna coming out as gay.  One or two young men
may have said or thought 'Bummer!' - but that was all.

But back to the story. At my house that evening I did get a
chance to talk to Lisa. "I've felt so guilty recently for not
staying in touch with you," she confided. "But we were so small
when Mum died and I think Hanne and Dad wanted us to, you know,
settle in, as a normal family."

"It's OK honey," I replied. "It wasn't an easy situation for
anyone."

"No," Lisa agreed. "It can't have been. Camilla has told me a bit
about how things were for the two of you."

"Eh, yes," I said cautiously, surprised and more than a little at
loss in deciding what to reply to that.

"I told Lisa what a complete cow I was," Camilla said bluntly.

"I wouldn't put it like that," I protested.

"You should!" Lisa said equally bluntly. "But from what Camilla
tells me you are a complete saint."

"I wouldn't put it like that either," I protested once more.

"Loving and forgiving and patient and generous - and you don't
call that saint -like?" Camilla asked. The love in her voice -
and her eyes - completely floored me. I swallowed hard and
blinked away tears.

"I'll say!" Lisa agreed.

"My motives may not be all that pure," I hazarded. I tried to say
it in a light tone of voice, but in reality I was testing the
waters.

"I hope they're not," Lisa said, "or my sister will be dreadfully
disappointed!"

I stared at her.

"You're not her dad, you know", Lisa said airily.

Before we could pursue this interesting line of conversation
further, the doorbell rang. John had come to take Lisa and her
bike home since it had gotten rather late. We exchanged a few
polite niceties, but I was too preoccupied to engage him in any
deep conversation and besides it was late and everyone wanted to
go to bed.

"What did you tell her?" I asked as I was washing Camilla in
preparation for bed.

"More or less everything," Camilla replied.

"Including me handling this?" I asked. Meaning the nappies.
Despite having regained the use of her hands and arms, it had
never been on the agenda that Camilla would take over doing it
herself.

"Yes," she replied. "And this!" she pulled my hand in tight to
her pussy and started moving it up and down. Taking the hint, I
rubbed her quickly and expertly to an orgasm.

When her breathing had returned to normal she added "I told her
you wouldn't go any further until I was able to run away if I
didn't like what we were doing."

"Oh," I said. 'Everything' seemed to be fairly accurate. "What
did Lisa say to that?"

"She urged me to get back on my feet as soon as possible,"
Camilla replied. She reached out and started to rub my erection
through my trousers. "I said I would. I have much better places
your sperm can go than in your pants."

Well, this load did go in my pants. My jeans were darkened. Like
I was thirteen again. Emotionally too. At least I felt as
confused and uncertain as I had back then. Some voice inside me
kept screaming 'wrong! wrong! wrong!' even if I was unable to
rationally put a finger on anything. It was not incest in any
stretch of the imagination. I was not Camilla's dad. For six
years I had been her mother's lover - two of those her mother's
husband and for just under five years I had been her legal
guardian, but I had never adopted her and she was now 23.

Sure, she was in a position of dependence of me; very much so. Of
course, technically she could ring the social authorities and
asked to be taken care of somewhere else, but that would mean a
dire existence so she was dependent on me. On the other hand she
had made it clear that she was happy being with me and in a very
direct way indicated that she would like to take it further. And
she had not only made it clear to me; Lisa had gotten the
message. If she could convince her long lost half-sister in three
hours, why couldn't she convince me in three months?

__________________________________


The following week the casts came off both Camilla's legs. She
cried when she saw them, but I reminded her of what the skin on
her arms - particularly the right - had looked like and how
quickly it had normalised. Obviously she would always have scars,
especially on her left leg, but the here-and-now issue - the
scaly ugly skin - could be remedied quickly. "Just get some sun
on your legs," the doctor agreed. "From your arms and face you
look like one of those fortunate people who tan easily without
burning."

"Easy enough for him to say," Camilla muttered on the way home.
“He doesn't have to tan in a nappy."

"Neither do you," I replied.

"Hello!" she flared up. "I have next to no bladder control!"

"And so?" I said. "The lawn won't hurt from that, will it?"

She smiled. "That's a point. Oh George, you are always so
practical!"

Her good mod lasted until we got home and she needed to get out
of the car. We had both assumed that once the casts were off her
legs, everything would be easier. Well, we were wrong - bending
her legs caused her screaming agony; in fact not having the
support of the casts made her much less mobile for the time
being.

She was not a happy camper when we made it into the house. She
needed some cheering up and following up on the success back when
the casts had come off of her arms, I decided that a full
immersion of her legs in warm sudsy water would be the way to go.
My house has a decent sized spa bath so I filled that with warm
water and a big dollop of the pleasantly scented soap I had used
for bathing her arms.

I undressed her and lifted her into the warm water with infinite
care, trying my best to put no load or strain on her legs. She
sighed contentedly, but the moment I let go of her she slid and
hurt her tender legs, crying with frustration. She had built up
some strength and mobility in her arms from using the manual
wheelchair, but many movements and positions were still
impossible, and she cried out "I can't hold myself like this - it
is not working!"

The solution was obvious - I stripped down and joined her in the
tub. Until that moment she had never seen me naked. Sure, she had
rubbed me to two copious ejaculations, but that was through my
clothes. Here I was finally, naked like her. She took a good long
look at me and let out a very un-lady-like wolf whistle. "Nice!"
she cooed.

The result was inevitable - by the time I had her naked body in
my arms in the warm water I was very erect. When I leaned forward
to help lather up her legs, she let out a giggle. "You're poking
me!" she teased.

"I'm sorry," I started, wondering if this impulse was such a good
one.

"Well, I'm NOT!" she replied and wriggled her bum back at me. As
if to prove it, she grabbed my hands and pulled them towards her
pussy, then found my hard-on with her most agile hand and started
masturbating me.

"I'll make a mess in the water if you keep doing that," I warned
her.

"Considering that we're supposed to remove several months’ worth
of dead skin from my legs, and considering that I am largely
incontinent, I don't think few cc’s of semen will make all that
much of a difference," she said, keeping up the manual
stimulation of my dick. "But if you'd rather come in my pussy
then feel freeeeeeeeeeh." She came from my ministrations. A
moment later I erupted, making the point moot.

I unplugged the tub to let out the choice water. The return of
full gravity was an unpleasant shock for Camilla, but she giggled
when I used the shower head to clean us off - no luxury that.
Lifting her out of the bath was not pain free for her, but at
least she was lighter from the lack of the casts and thus easier
for me to handle.

It took three days of tub baths like that one before all the dead
skin had come off. Each time we brought each other off manually.
"A pity to waste it," she mumbled the third night when my
ejaculation shot out in the water. I pretended to not hear that.
At her request I shaved her legs, leaving them smooth as silk.
She sighed in pleasure when I ran my hands over them to check on
my handiwork. My dick responded, despite me having come so
recently. Perhaps there was something to say for male Kegel
exercises after all! "Please put it in me!" she pleaded when she
saw it back at full mast as I lowered her down on her bed.

"Later," I replied. "When you are able to run away." She groaned
and I added teasingly "There should be some incentive for further
training."

"Beast!" she pouted, but pulled me down for a deep kiss.

She tanned in the nude in our back garden for the next couple of
weeks. The late summer was unusually warm and sunny and by the
end of August she had a most becoming tan all over her body with
not a tan-line in sight. She looked good enough to eat. If her
bladder problem meant that the lawn got watered in places, so
what?

Karen and Elsebeth worked wonders on her legs and taught me how
to keep up the work when they weren't there. Camilla was still
not able to get up and down on her own or to walk unaided, but in
late October she took her first tentative steps with the help of
two crutches. From then on it went in leaps and bounds. Shortly
after she was able to get up and down from her chair and in late
November there was nothing tentative about her walking - even if
she still needed both crutches and tired quickly.

Tenna and Stine came to visit. It was mainly a kind of farewell -
partly because Camilla no longer needed a 'babysitter', partly
because they were leaving town soon to move to Copenhagen
(together, of course). Stine would soon be a fully qualified
nurse. Tenna both wanted to study and pursue her swimming career.
She had been taken on by one of the big Copenhagen clubs. She was
apologetic about 'abandoning us', but I was adamant - as I had
been with previous swimmers in her situation - that if she was to
fulfil her potential, she needed to train with stronger swimmers
and having more professional coaching than we could offer here. I
told her I would miss her - and Stine - to bits, but that they
went with my blessing and deep affection. Tears were shed.

While discussing Camilla's progress - and the road still ahead,
Stine suggested that we should try aquatic therapy - i.e.
training in a pool. She felt certain I would be able to get some
pool time with Camilla, especially if we could go on some
decidedly out-of-hours times. Camilla was strangely
unenthusiastic about the proposal which surprised me, but the
girls were leaving and I forgot about until later that evening
when I was getting her ready for bed.

That still involved changing her nappy. Thinking that she perhaps
worried about going in a public pool when incontinent, I tried to
reassure her. "One can get adult swimming nappies, you know. They
are quite effective and allow handicapped people to enjoy the
water like everyone else."

To my consternation she broke down completely. "I don't need them
anymore," she admitted. "I've been largely continent for weeks -
and completely for the last fortnight."

"But you are wet every time I change you!" I said - stupidly.

Her crying intensified. "That's because I wet them deliberately."

"Why..:" I started, but stopped myself. That would be a stupid
question.

She answered anyway. "Because I crave the attention and love the
intimacy. I feel safe and loved when you look after me that way."

I must have looked stunned, and didn't know what to say.

"And now you hate me," she sobbed.

That spurred me on, "I most emphatically do not!" I replied.
"Nothing could be further from the truth. I would have liked to
have shared in your triumph of regaining control of that part of
your body too, but I understand the other issue. And I am not the
least bit angry with you. I will change you as long as you want
me to."

"No, that's OK," she sniffled. "The magic is kind of gone when
you know it's a kink and not a need. It's just...."

She trailed off.

"It's just?" I prompted.

"It's just that as long as I cannot walk unaided you won't make
love to me, so I saw this as the next best thing. A way to make
you touch me. And bring me off." The latter was said in almost a
whisper.

"Who says I won't do that?" I asked. "Who says I won't still put
you to bed every night?"

"You will?" she asked - her blue eyes looking at me through the
tears.

"Oh yes I will," I said and my hand found her slopping wet sex.
"You seem to sleep so much better when I have made you come. I'll
happily do that." I did and moments later she fell asleep.

__________________________________


Since my parents died I'd had no-one to spend Christmas with.
Rather than sitting home alone or fleeing abroad - Christmas
alone does not get any less lonely from being spent alone at a
tourist resort - I had volunteered to assist one of the big
Christian charities' local Christmas party for the homeless, poor
and lonely. It had actual been very rewarding. The first time was
just after my parents died. The second time, last year, it was
shortly after I broke up with Emma. In both cases it helped me at
least as much as it helped the people attending it out of
financial need. One day in early December there was a letter from
the charity asking if they could count on me again. To my
surprise, when I mentioned it to Camilla that night she was all
fired up. "I want us to do that!" she said and couldn't be
dissuaded. "I know I can't do much in way of practical things
like setting up and serving, but I can entertain the children -
and read to them and so on."

I agreed and called the local head of the charity who was
delighted I would come and thrilled about Camilla's offer. While
I'd been on the phone, Camilla had been on hers and told me that
her supervisor agreed that this kind of activity would give her
credit towards her degree if she wrote up a small essay on the
experience. "That's not why I'm doing it!" she stated. I knew
that and told her so, but even so I was pleased for her. She had
resumed her studies from home, preparing for the two exams she
had been due to take when the accident happened and declared
herself ready to try to do them in January. Her thesis was in a
very advanced draft with her supervisor and should be ready to be
submitted in March. That left only the practical placement at a
school - something the college would have to negotiate for her,
and a tiny module in community service. It would now seem she had
found a solution for that too.

That Christmas Eve - we celebrate Christmas on the night of the
24th in Denmark - was lovely. The other volunteers were welcoming
and friendly towards Camilla. She was easily the youngest
volunteer and her inclusion in the team was a real bonus. The way
she handled the children was a joy. I could see what the
secretary at the college had meant when she praised Camilla's
skills with kids. There were a lot of kids; even in the Danish
Welfare State, people fall through the safety net. Quite often it
is single mothers with children who find that they simply cannot
manage a Christmas feast. Our area is affluent in a mild way, yet
the arrangement was filled to capacity, but at least we didn't
have to turn anyone away.

People eat a lot at Christmas and there was tons of the
traditional Christmas fare. The children are always full long
before the adults; that is true whether you have Christmas
celebrations at home or in a community hall; the kids wait
impatiently for their elders to finish eating so they can get on
with the festivities. Well, this year there was this pretty blond
girl with the Santa Hat in the wheelchair to entertain them. The
wheelchair didn't faze them one bit - children in general are
tolerant and inclusive; these children even more so from living
on the shadow side of society. When Camilla started reading to
them they gathered around her, listening in rapt attention. When
she started singing with them, the din from the dining tables
suddenly died down. Everyone strained to hear the children's
voices. I swear there wasn't a single dry eye between us adults.

The local state church pastor who had dropped in after having
dinner at home with his family was charmed. "The way she taught
that Christmas Carol to children too small to read was magical.
She'd make a fantastic teacher," he gushed.

"Indeed," I replied with pride. "She should finish her degree
this coming term."

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "Splendid. She is a true teacher."

"Will she always need that wheelchair?" another of the volunteers
asked.

"We hope not," I replied. "She can walk a bit with two crutches,
but she tires easily."

The Danish Christmas tradition includes 'dancing around the
tree'. It is not so much dancing as slowly walking around in a
circle, hand in hand, singing the traditional Christmas Carols.
There was a huge decorated tree in the hall and when we did the
'dancing' the children formed an inner circle and us adults an
outer one. Camilla couldn't manage, of course, but some of the
older children took turns pushing her wheelchair around - and two
of the smallest children got a ride, sitting on Camilla's lap.

There were presents - a simple but nice age- and
gender-appropriate gift for every participant donated by our
sponsors and they brought joy to everyone. After that there was
one more song around the tree - the carol Camilla had taught the
children - and then the party finished with the pastor sending us
home with a gentle blessing. "I will pray for each and every one
of you here that the coming year will bring you comfort, joy,
healing and progress. And I pray that when you do move on in life
that you do not forget the fellowship we shared tonight." I
realised that a lot of people were looking at Camilla when the
pastor mentioned 'healing and progress'. Camilla didn't notice;
she was busy fare-welling her new young friends who were flocking
around her wheelchair and who all wanted hugs.

Camilla was very quiet in the car home. "I've never been
religious," she said just as we were entering our village. "But
tonight really touched me."

"Me too," I replied. "I've very little time for organised
religion - but the practical down-to-earth Christianity practised
tonight, that makes sense to me."

We were quiet again, but then I chuckled.

"What?" Camilla asked.

"Well, I'm a bit ambivalent about the ‘organised religion'
question," I admitted. "I mean, I absolute adore Gothic
cathedrals."

"So do I," Camilla agreed enthusiastically. "But where is the
ambivalence?"

"How many Gothic cathedrals would have built without organised
religion, do you think?" I teased.

"Good point," Camilla said. "They must have had such faith."

We arrived at the house and got inside. "Do you need help to be
put to bed?" I asked hopefully.

"No, I'll be right," Camilla said and wheeled off to her bedroom.

I was a little disappointed, but quite tired so I got ready for
bed myself. I was only just in bed and my night-light still on
when there was a light knock on my door. Before I could say
anything, the door opened. Camilla was walking - unaided and thus
with a heavy limp, but nevertheless walking in. She was naked.

"You said you wouldn't do anything before I was able to walk away
if I didn't like what happened," she said. "Well, I've walked
into your bedroom myself. I reckon that should put your fears at
rest. Please will you make love to me?"

I would have expected a million thoughts to go through my head,
but there really wasn't all that much to debate. 'Keep it simple'
is a good principle. I merely said "Yes."

__________________________________


She got into the bed and we started kissing. I wanted to play
with her breasts, but she shook her head, pulled my pj top over
my head and started tugging the pants down. "Impatient are we?" I
asked lightly.

"Yes!" she replied. "We've had over half a year of foreplay. I'm
more than ready for the real thing."

She wasn't ready to be on top, though, so once I was naked she
rolled on her back and start pulling me on top of her. I got
between her legs and she pulled me towards her by grabbing my bum
cheeks. Moments later I slid into her; she was sopping wet but
delightfully tight - and the Kegels had paid off; she was
massaging my cock with her pussy muscles.

I started moving slowly, but she urged me on. She had said she
wanted me to make love to her - and I did that on that wonderful
Christmas night, but our first round could best be described as
out-and-out rutting. Her mother had liked it energetic too at
times, but this was something else! I don't know if it has
anything to do with having large clits, but again like her mother
Camilla comes easily and massively and repeatedly. And oh my, is
she loud! Our house is at the end of a cul-de-sac and the master
bedroom faces the garden which is very secluded (which was what
enabled Camilla to tan in the nude during summer). And still I
fleetingly worried that the neighbours would think murder was
being committed. But then I exploded in the most intense orgasm
in my life and almost passed out,

Suddenly mindful that I was heavy and her pelvis had been
shattered not a year ago, I wanted to get off of her, but she
held me in a tight grip. "Stay where you are!" she said. "You're
not hurting me." With a sexy chuckle she added "On the contrary!"
and then she started up those blessed Kegels again.

I got hard once more. Karen was right; who needs Viagra if he
remembers his daily Kegel exercises? With the urgency and pent up
itch well and truly scratched by the first frantic sex, we took
is slowly, sometimes stopping to just kiss and cuddle, then
moving again. When I rolled her nipple between my fingers she
suddenly came with a drawn out "Yeeeeeeees" and I let myself go
too. Sensing I was coming she looked into my eyes. "Happy
Christmas George. I love you and I never want to leave."

"I love you too Camilla," I replied. "And I don't want you to
leave. Ever." I rolled off of her, pulled her in close and fell
asleep quickly.

Christmas morning we made love again in bed - fast, furious,
noisy and fun. We showered but decided to have breakfast just in
dressing gowns. We ended up making love on the dining table in
the kitchen. In fact we never got dressed that day. Not on Boxing
Day either. Over the next week we did it on the sofa in the
living room, on her bed ('just to try it'), in the spa tub ('see?
no sperm in  the water - much cleaner!'), in all the chairs -
once she worked out the girl-on-top, but mainly in the bed. Our
bed. She never moved out of the master bedroom again.

On New Year's Eve we had a romantic candlelit dinner for two.
Danes traditionally pop the Champagne at the stroke of midnight
and set off fireworks, but Camilla had other ideas. Well,
Fireworks it was, but of a different kind. A few minutes before
midnight she impaled herself on me on the sofa and bounced up and
down my shaft with vigour. It started to feel really good and I
signalled my impending release. "You gotta hold off for another
30 seconds," she panted - and I realised she wanted to time it
with the New Year. As we heard the crowds on the Town Hall Square
in Copenhagen count down on TV, we did our own countdown and at
the sound of the first bell we came simultaneously and
gloriously, Camilla howling like a banshee.

__________________________________


In mid-January Camilla passed her final two exams with flying
colours. Her write-up on the Christmas Feast with the charity
also passed and all she now needed to graduate was a prac
placement. To our delight, that was arranged much quicker than we
could have hoped for - in fact she started her final prac at her
old school in the city only hours after the exam in the final
subject. A cancellation by another student had left an opening,
and she was on top of the waiting list. She had been there once
before during her early studies and actually knew quite a few of
the students she would now be teaching. And they remembered her.
Did they ever! She told me she was essentially mobbed by a group
of thrilled third graders when she showed up. She had just
started to walk with a single crutch and nearly fell over.

Her limping attracted very little attention. The school knew, of
course, and she also told her students, but most people would
just assume that she'd had a sports injury and was recovering
from that. In winter Denmark is swarming with people who have
broken or sprained limbs when skiing. Denmark is flat - very
flat; the tallest point is just some 5-600 feet above sea level,
so unpractised Danes flock to the slopes in Scandinavia or the
Alps. The first few days they are careful, then they think they
are experts and on the third day they fall and break or sprain
something.

I had resumed work, as in going to my workplace daily, and life
was 'normal', I suppose. But delightfully normal. I was lonely no
more. I was happy, I was in love, life seemed overwhelmingly
good. And I was completely unprepared for the crisis.

But a crisis it was. I came home one Friday evening in early
February after swimming training to find a shattered Camilla. She
was quiet, but it was obvious she had been crying and she
couldn't look at me without starting crying again. I wanted to
take her in my arms and ask what the matter was, but she wouldn't
let me. "What's going on?" I asked

"Tell me about Emma," she said tonelessly.

"Emma?" I asked. "I know several people called Emma."  That was
perhaps disingenuous. Sure, I've had several swimmers of that
name; it's not at all rare, but I was pretty certain which Emma
we were talking about.

And I was not wrong. She looked at me flatly. "The one that put
me in my place in H&M all those years ago."

"That Emma lives in Jutland. She is married and probably a mother
by now," I said.

"You got one out of three right," Camilla said. "She's got a
baby. But she is no longer married and she doesn't live in
Jutland anymore."

"How do you know?" I asked with an impending feeling of dread

"Because she showed up here two or three hours ago, baby and all,
asking after you," Camilla said.

"I don't know why she would do that," I said, shocked to the
core. "The last time we were in touch was nearly a year ago when
she wrote to tell me about getting married and having a baby."

"She said she had been living with you," Camilla said. "She hoped
you would take her in again."

I felt faint. "I don't know why she would think that," I said.

"Perhaps she is in love with you. Perhaps she thought you were
too?" Camilla said still tonelessly

"No," I said, mostly to myself. "We were never in love. I think
we were both in love with the idea of being in love, but it never
happened. That's why we parted."

"So she was just a fuck buddy?" Camilla challenged. She used the
Danish word 'bolleven' which is slightly less harsh, but it still
didn't sound nice. "Am I that too? A fuck buddy you will discard
when you tire of me rather than committing to anything?"

"No Camilla, I..." I started, but she cut me off.

"How many more have there been? Did Saint George fuck all the
ex-swimmers the moment they became ex?" she was yelling. "Did you
do the divorced mothers too? And the boys? Should I get an HIV
test?" She was completely hysterically now.

She got me fired up. "Not that it is anybody's business, but
between your mother and you I've had exactly one sex partner -
Emma."

"But you discarded her! When by the way?" she yelled.

"I didn't 'discard' anyone. We parted as friends last September
when she got a job in Jutland," I shot back.

"Well at least the baby isn't yours then," she muttered.

"Camilla," I said as quietly as I was able to. "In my entire
adult life I have always been completely monogamous and faithful.
I have never two-timed anyone, nor have I had sex with anyone who
had other commitments. And I have never entered a relationship
when there were unresolved issued for either me or the partner."

She broke down sobbing. "I know. I am sorry," she said again and
again. "I am so sorry. Emma so wanted you; she almost collapsed
when she didn't find you home but rather me, me of all people.
And I am so scared it could be me in her situation."

I wondered if this was perhaps 'just' PMS. Camilla suffered from
severe mood swings just before her period, and although this
episode was worse than anything we had previously experienced,
perhaps PMS was the explanation. So I did a mental calculation
and suddenly felt really faint. As far as I could figure out I
had been having sex with Camilla every day for over six weeks,
unimpeded by any condoms and uninterrupted by any periods. The
implication was unavoidable.

She sat crumpled up in a chair. I knelt in front of her and put
my arms around her. "Camilla, my love, my only love. That will
never happen. You will never have to fear being kicked out and
fleeing across the country to seek shelter with a friend. Our
baby will grow up being loved by two parents. Sure, a somewhat
old father. But a doting father who loves the mother."

The crying stopped. "You knew?" she whispered.

"No," I replied. "I only just worked it out. And it explains
everything. But why didn't you tell me?"

"I've been so scared," Camilla whispered. "Scared that you would
feel I had entrapped you."

"It takes two to tango," I replied. "I never even thought about
contraception. I knew perfectly well that you didn't take any
pills, and the IUD you got years back must have been taken out
long ago."

"I had it taken out while at efterskole; it made my periods so
bad. And I can't use the pill - I throw up if I take them, so
I've always, I mean, my boyfriends have always used condoms," she
said.

"So I don't need an HIV test either?" I asked lightly.

She had the good grace to blush. "Sorry about that; I felt so
insecure."

"Don't!" I said. "You are loved. You are wanted. So is our baby."

"You truly want it?" she asked. "You are not mad at me?"

"Mad at you?" I asked. "This is the happiest day of my life! Not
having children was the biggest void in my life. That and the
loneliness. Now you have filled them both."

We didn't even make it to the bedroom. We made love right there
on the floor next to the chair. It was sweet and slow and
rewarding. While basking in the afterglow, she looked at me in
the most intensely loving way anyone has ever looked at me. "I am
so glad you're not my dad," she said.

"Me too," I replied, "or I wouldn't be able to say what I'm going
to say now."

She looked mystified. "What's that?"

"Will you marry me?"

I think the frantic kiss I got meant 'yes'. She was still
babbling incoherently when I carried her to bed.

__________________________________


The next morning Camilla's new-found feeling of security in our
relationship had a most gratifying manifestation. We made love,
slowly, and cuddled afterwards - reluctant to leave the bed and
each other's embrace. "Mr. Nielsen," she eventually said. She
always does that when she wants to get my attention for something
important.

"Mmmm," I replied - it's hard to speak with a nipple in your
mouth.

"About Emma," Camilla started. I froze. "I think you should give
her a call. To see if we can help her."

I relaxed and let go of her nipple. "Yes my love, I'll do that.
Her mother lives in town, but I don't think they get on very
well."

"She can stay here until she gets back on her feet," Camilla
said. I was stunned but didn't argue.

Emma was indeed with her mother, and no, they did not get on very
well.  Emma's mother had never liked the bloke Emma had married
and had not had the grace to refrain from saying 'I told you so'.
Emma cried on the phone. "I'm sorry about yesterday; Camilla must
have been shocked. I shouldn't have come."

"Of course you should," I replied. "And Camilla suggested we
should see what we could do to help."

"Camilla did?" Emma asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I agree entirely. But it was at her urging
that I phone now."

"What's going on George?" Emma asked.

"A lot! We'll tell you - we'll come and get you and your baby.
Can you be ready in an hour?" I asked.

"I'm ready now - I'd rather sleep under a bridge than spend one
more night in my mother's house," she muttered.

We drove in Camilla's car - we had now gotten rid of the Berlingo
and bought her a small ordinary car instead, and my car neither
seats four people - including a baby, nor is it particularly
comfortable in a Danish winter. Speaking of babies, I rummaged in
the attic for a baby seat, but didn't find anything useful. So we
stopped at an auto-supply shop on the way and bought a
'baby-capsule'. It was our first shop for baby-equipment and we
felt all giddy, even if another baby would use it first.

Emma's mother opened the door. She had never liked me either,
saying I was much too old for Emma. Seeing me with someone even
younger did not exactly raise my popularity. Emma came out with
her baby - a gorgeous little boy named Jonas of around three
months - and let herself be hugged by both of us. "I'm so glad
you're rescuing me," she said quite pointedly. I didn't know the
answer to that one with her mother present, so I just smiled.

I carried Emma's bags and Emma carried Jonas. "I noticed you were
limping," she said to Camilla. "What's happened?"

"It's complicated," I replied for her. "We'll tell you when we
get home."

Jonas' pram could have posed a problem in Camilla's small car,
but the frame was collapsible and hung quite well from the bike
rack on the T-bar. "Neat!" Emma said. "But I'm afraid I don't
have baby seat."

"We do," Camilla said. "But you'll have to help me work out how
to use it - we bought it on the way over."

"You shouldn't have!" Emma said, and there were tears in her
eyes.

"Oh yes, we should," Camilla countered. "Nothing is more
important than your baby's safety. Besides..."

She glanced at me with a questioning look and I nodded.

"Besides we're going to need it ourselves," Camilla added.
"Sometime in late September."

Emma nearly dropped the baby. "I can see you do have a lot to
tell me!" she exclaimed. I could only nod in agreement.

Talk we did. Emma and Jonas moved into Camilla's old room. She
was adamant she didn't need us to buy a baby bed as Jonas usually
slept with her at night and he could sleep fine in the pram
during the day. But we did go out and buy a change table and
other essential supplies. When she asked about a nappy pail
Camilla coolly informed her we had one. "I was incontinent for
the first six or seven months after the accident," she said. "So
I was in nappies."

"Oh," Emma said.

"And since I had four limbs in plaster casts," Camilla continued,
"George got a brushing-up course in changing - he hadn't done it
since my sisters were small."

Emma just stared at Camilla, then me, then back at Camilla.
Camilla's openness floored her. They quickly became very good
friends. Obviously Emma had a lot to offer in terms of advice on
pregnancy, but they also had shared experience in another area -
me - and it was highly embarrassing for me at times when they
discussed me like I wasn't there at all.

Emma would be on maternity leave until Jonas was nearly a year
and then she would look for a job in the area. After a couple of
weeks we found her somewhere to stay. It was actually Erik who
had a fully equipped annex to his house; his children had used it
as a 'half-way house' when they were teenagers and it was quite
nice. She got it cheaply and I kept her afloat until the
financial mess that was her failed marriage was sorted out.

Erik and especially his wife Lisette, a self-proclaimed
grandmother-wannabe, took very good care of Emma. Last were
heard, so does their oldest son Thomas, an engineer like Erik,
single and a year or so older than Emma. Whether that will come
to anything I don't know, but the potential bomb that was Emma
reappearing was very convincingly defused.

__________________________________


Obviously the course of Camilla's pregnancy was a bit of a mixed
bag - there were some downs amongst the many ups. The medical
side was all good though; our first prenatal visit was very
positive. Not only was Camilla's doctor adamant that the
pregnancy was low-risk, pelvic screws and other assorted hardware
notwithstanding. He even suggested the elevated hormonal levels
would be beneficial for Camilla too and she certainly had no more
discomfort than most other pregnant women that summer - which
was, and remained, unusually warm way into September. Our
secluded back garden was used frequently and she looked
absolutely stunningly glorious when she gave birth.

Her sisters took the news of the pregnancy - and the father -
very well. Lisa was out-and-out positive from the way go, Anne
initially neutral but she was swayed by the mood. But their
father and stepmother were negative. Not directly hostile (at
least not Hanne), but very far from supportive. We had similar
reactions from some of the swimming parents, but luckily not
many. And the ugly suggestion that the relationship was somehow
incestuous was dealt with very firmly. I simply informed the cow
who had uttered it that unless she publically retracted and
apologised, her kids should not show up at swimming - I was not
going to train them. I was told it was unreasonable to 'blackmail
the kids' and I countered that I had to have a regime of complete
trust with the parents of the children, or it couldn't work. She
threatened legal action and I told her that the slander was
likely to land her on the wrong side of the dock.

She then tried to plead the case for all middle aged women. "It
is not very nice to fear that one gets discarded for a younger
model," she said.

My reply was gruesome if superficially polite. "Madam," I said.
"I can well understand that you have that fear, but allow me to
assure you that no-one has been discarded to establish Camilla's
and my relationship." Camilla tried to suppress her laughter so
hard she ended up with hiccups.

During spring we went through a lot of Irene's things, including
personal papers. Amongst them was the autopsy report - the
reading of which put us in a rather sombre mood. Camilla was very
quiet, which was natural enough, but she seemed pained and
worried beyond the memory of her mother's death more than a
decade past and I asked her what it was that bugged her.

"Oh, I supposed all pregnant women worry," she said trying to
sound off-hand - and failing. She was clearly upset, and I could
sense it.

"But?" I asked. And I made sure she knew I wanted to know.

"Well, it's just," she started. Then the waterworks started.
"What if the risk of getting that rare cancer is hereditary? What
if I too die from small children?" She cried pitifully.

I took her in my arms. "Sweetheart, we know it isn't."

She looked at me stunned. "How do we know?"

"Because three of your mother's lab analyst colleagues from the
pharmaceutical company also died from rare cancers, plus the lead
researcher," I replied quietly. "It is quite a cluster. Not legal
proof, of course, but a smoking gun."

"How do you know?" Camilla asked.

"The husband of one of the others contacted me some years ago. He
could see a pattern," I replied.

"I say!" Camilla explained. "Did he do anything about it?"

"No," I replied heavily. "He had a mysterious single-car accident
and died."

Camilla, not surprisingly, shuddered. "Will you follow up on it?"
she asked.

"No thank you," I said firmly. "If you and your sisters were
destitute then I would consider it, but we're quite comfortable
and I have no desire to die."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Read up on Stanley Adams versus Roche. That was more than 30
years ago and the pharmaceutical companies have only gotten
bigger and more powerful. I can't recommend taking them on."

We've never talked about it again.

__________________________________


But there were also positive responses from going through Irene's
things. Camilla and her sisters found their mother's wedding
dress - in perfect condition and looking exactly like it did the
day it was bought. Camilla then and there decided she wanted to
get married wearing it. They are of exactly the same build, so
that should work - except she already had a noticeable baby-bump.
That more or less set the wedding date for next summer - when she
will have slimmed down again. And it sets the stage for a "Danish
Double" - wedding and baptism on the same day. I am fine with
that; the town hall registry office has already taken care of the
legal part of things. Given our past history, I saw it pertinent
that all paperwork was in order!

By the time she graduated Camilla was very visibly pregnant; she
had done nothing to hide it and when her third grade students
discovered her pregnancy they were ecstatic. The headmaster and
supervising teacher who had been distressed that they could not
hire Camilla at once were delighted. A senior teacher was due to
retire in one year; and Camilla is now practically guaranteed a
job after maternity leave. We talked to them at Camilla's
graduation. When I hinted that Camilla might be on leave soon
again, the headmaster just laughed. "That doesn't matter," he
said. "That's only natural. As long as no other school steals
Camilla from us, I'm fine with that. A headmaster averse to
maternity would be the height of hypocrisy!"

Over summer we had fun redecorating the house. The spare room
that I originally wanted to put a fourth baby in will finally be
a nursery - that feels just right.  My cousin and her family
visited in August from New Zealand. It was great catching up;
there will be a lot to write about in coming Christmas letters -
and a return visit is planned.

__________________________________


I am writing these last few lines in the late afternoon. Our
little girl, Irene Elisabeth Nielsen, was born at 3AM this
morning. I've been home to shower, shave and change and will
drive back to the hospital soon, picking up Lisa and Anne on the
way. As I said, I've been writing stories for years; now I need a
break. I have much better things to do; against all odds and all
expectations I am now a father.

I want my little girl to grow up happy that I am her dad.

THE END.