from her chair, and Ellie followed, her obedient little shadow.
I put a yogurt in front of Petra and then went round to clear the girls’ plates. Ellie’s was just the usual mess of toast crusts and spaghetti sauce, with as many peas as possible hidden under her spoon. But Maddie’s . . . I was about to scrape it into the compost bin when I stopped, turning the plate.
She had eaten most of her supper, but a dozen or so alphabet letters had been left, and now I saw, just as I was about to throw them away, that the letters seemed to be arranged into words. The phrase was sliding diagonally across the plate where I had tipped it towards the compost bin, but it was still just readable.
W E H
A T
E U
We hate you.
Somehow, seeing it there in the innocence of Alphabetti Spaghetti was more upsetting than almost anything else. I scraped the plate with a violence that made the spaghetti ricochet off the inside of the compost bin lid, and then threw it into the sink, where it hit a glass, and they both shattered, sending shards of glass and spatters of tomato sauce flying.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I hate you too! I wanted to scream after their retreating backs, as they padded quietly away into the media room to fire up Netflix. I hate you too, you vile, creepy little shits!
But it wasn’t true. Not completely.
I did hate them—in that moment. But I saw myself too. A prickly little girl, full of emotions too big for her small frame, emotions she could not understand or contain.
I hate you, I remembered sobbing into my pillow, after my mother threw away my favorite teddy bear, too old, too shabby, too babyish for a big girl like me, according to her. I hate you so much!
But it wasn’t true then either. I loved my mother. I loved her so much that it suffocated her—or that was the impression she gave. All those years of small hands being disentangled from sleeves and skirts, and untwined from around necks. That’s enough now, you’ll mess up my hair, and, Oh, for goodness’ sake, your hands are filthy, and Stop being a baby now, a big girl like you. All those years of being too needy, and too grabby, and too grubby-handed—of trying to be better and neater, and just more lovable.
She didn’t want me. Or that’s what it felt like, at times.
But she was all I had.
Maddie had so much more than me—a father, three sisters, a beautiful house, two dogs . . . but I recognized her sadness and her anger and her frustration—an angry little dark changeling among her blond sisters.
We even looked alike.
When she looked at me, with that touch of triumph in her dark, boot-button eyes, I had recognized something else too, and now I knew what it was. It was a flash of myself in those eyes. A flicker of my own dark brown eyes, and my own determination. Maddie was a woman with a plan, just like I was. The question was, what was it?
I was so tired after my near sleepless night the night before that I bundled the girls upstairs to bed ridiculously early. To my surprise they didn’t protest, and I found myself wondering if they were as tired as I was.
Petra went down with no more than a token protest, and when I went to check on Maddie and Ellie they were both in their pajamas—or almost there, in the case of Ellie. I helped her figure out which way her top went and then shepherded them into the bathroom, where they did their teeth obediently as I stood over them.
“Do you want a story?” I asked as I tucked them into their little beds, and I saw Ellie’s eyes flicker to Maddie, looking for permission to speak. But Maddie shook her head.
“No. We’re too big for stories.”
“I know that’s not true,” I said, with a little laugh. “Everyone likes bedtime stories.”
Any other night I might have sat myself down, cracked open a book, and begun anyway, in defiance of Maddie’s refusals. But I was tired. I was so tired. Being with the girls all day from sunup to sunset was exhausting in a completely different way to the nursery, a way I hadn’t fully anticipated or understood until now. I thought of all the mums who had dropped their children off talking about how exhausted they were, and the slight contempt