Favorite Daughter — Chapter 1

Trish Di Stefano
7 min readSep 9, 2023

Sneak preview of the novel I am currently working on…

Photo by Allef Vinicius on Unsplash


Sunday, Day After the Wedding

It was the makeup that woke me. Had it not been for those ridiculous lashes, I may not have noticed the blood until morning.

Shortly after I’d fallen asleep, my face still smooshed in the warm nook of Fasi’s armpit, some sort of muscle memory propelled my body up to sitting. I never went to bed without washing my face.

“Lee?” Fasi turned onto his stomach, his eyes still closed. I reached over his head and gently pressed my palm against his bare back. My rings — one brand new, one slightly less so — flickered under the moonlight. Fasi breathed in and the length of his exhale told me he’d fallen right back asleep, so I slipped out of bed.

Once I’d pried the last of my fake eyelashes off, I pulled down my new white lace panties to pee. They were sticky and damp; it had been a long, slow, glorious consummation.

But as soon as I sat down, I saw that the wetness was blood. My brain froze; a little was normal — Viv had spotted in her first trimester with Jesia — except this wasn’t a little. I fished a pad out of the bottom drawer of the vanity, and my heart pumped like hummingbird wings as I hurried back to our bedroom on tiptoes, a wad of toilet paper held between my legs. Fasi’s breaths were loud and rhythmic, which made me say a little prayer to no one in particular. I crept over to check the sheets using the light from my phone; they seemed clean. I shimmied my way into the closet, sliding the door fully closed before switching on the light inside. It was difficult to steady my hands as I folded the sticky wings of the pad over a fresh pair of underwear. I crumpled my new, not-so-white-anymore panties up with the toilet paper.

With a long, silent breath out, I lowered myself to the floor, landing on a small heap of almost identical graphic t-shirts. I pulled one out from under me, Tommy Pickles plastered across the chest, and buried my face in it. It smelled like vetiver and solace.

I contemplated whether a person’s scent could be bottled and thought if anyone knew it would be Fasi. I smelled the t-shirt one more time before crawling over to my side of the closet, grabbing…



Trish Di Stefano

Trish Di Stefano is an idealist, recovering perfectionist and weekend glutton.