The daughter we had concern for telephoned, and asked if she could come back home?
Mr Big I Am was out of the house. Could I come, help shift her stuff? To her rescue, I went when the phone went click.
We stuffed those bulging black bin bags into the boot of my car. She backed her car onto the street, aimed it homeward bound. I followed in mine.
Her bedroom was waiting, the duvet pulled back. The kettle had boiled, we sat and had a chat.
Mr Big I Am had pulled Bella’s hair, a fistful she said. I searched her scalp, for an absent bald patch that she was adamant was there. She did not confess to spraying hair lacquer in his face. She had hidden behind the front door, waited for his key to slide in the lock, then aimed the sticky mist, and fired straight between his eyes.
Why? Had he been caught cheating?
No, he paraded his conquests, made sure she suffered his joy.
He told her waiting ear; he had conquered a gorgeous model. ‘Who looked just like your mum.’
Who would encourage a daughter to be jealous of their own mother?
The Big I Am, that’s who.