When you were born your mother suffered a severe haemorrhage. The hospital staff couldn't place you on her chest, so I was the only one who could perform the bonding imprint. Despite her delicate condition, the doctor instructed you should still get your colostrum, which they took from her. It was then, dizzy and in post-op pain, with the discomfort of the breast pump, when she made her mind you were going to be our only child. She had her fallopian tubes tied and that was the end of any would-be discussion.

You were a strong, healthy baby girl, receiving all the proper care, while your mother went through a slow recovery. Our bond was firm from your first days. When your mother was well enough to take you in her arms, her rejection was thinly disguised. That's how you became my baby girl—my baby girl. It was I who took a long-term leave from work to care for you, and later to quit my work, while she went back to pursue her rising career as soon as she was able. You grew with a distant mother, ever closer to me. Your first steps were to my arms; your mother was away. Your first word was Daddy, your first sentence I love you Daddy. Your innocence completely took over my heart. What a joy it was preparing our fun bubble baths, the fresh smell of your skin, playing with you, water trickling over your scalp. Despite the widespread denial, I was aware how common child abuse was within families, but was relieved to find no such inclination, but rather a chaste and harmless sense of protectiveness towards you. I spent your first years as a stay-at-home dad, potty training you, teaching you to eat and read, and to respect and obey your parents and elders.

You showed a tender character from the very beginning, never coming even close to having a tantrum. Praise made you beam, but you never took it for granted. How you didn't become a spoiled child, despite my unfettered dotting, is a mystery. You seldom asked for anything, and when you did, it was with such meekness my heart melted at the thought I could give you what you wanted. Every little thing you got from me made you jump with joy, while you received your mother's expensive presents with polite gratitude. Only when you started attending preschool did I go back to work, and only part-time at first. My new workplace had an unhealthy environment, and my employer, an acquaintance of your mother's, constantly harassed me. I went through every day stoically, with the promise of picking you up at school when it was over gave purpose to my day. Your mother's career went up like a shooting star, so before you could walk, we moved into a large house in an affluent suburb, and the school we chose —rather I chose and your mother approved— was a traditional and costly institution.

From the very beginning you were an overachiever in school, sensing at an early age how much your academic success pleased Daddy. I devoted myself to your sound intellectual upbringing, the sharpness of your mind never turning into arrogance.

When you reached puberty, I was expecting your childish innocence would be replaced with the modesty becoming of that age, yet the instances for you to appear before me stark naked out of the shower, or half-dressed on a hot summer day, didn't cease. I took it as another facet of our uncommon filial attachment, a welcome surprise.

As you grew up, the sight of your delicate skin when your knees came out under your plaid skirt was the beginning of my indulgence in fantasies. I never laid a finger on you, my self-restraint a buttress to a, by then, weakening sense of right and wrong. Your straight blonde hair, worn long and loose, was like your mother's when she was dating me. Your delicate features and slim build were also hers. Such were the attributes for which I fell prey to my corrupt desires. When your bust started taking shape, holding you tight became a lost battle against those dreaded thoughts. Despite my outward behaviour, I was beset with strong desires, a burning lust I was confident I was successfully concealing, yet you had grown so close to me, the paranoid suspicion grew that you could read my mind. I knew well the signs of sexual initiation by a minor are just a fidget of an abuser’s imagination, so even though I couldn't prevent those dark thoughts from taking shape in my mind, at least I managed to keep them within the bounds of fantasy.