We were invited to Sunday dinner, to the house Bella shared with Mr Big I Am.
Daughter had just got out of bed at four in the afternoon. Big I Am had a broad smile on his face.
We sat around the table, dined on lamb, spooned on mint sauce. Bella and her beau sat facing. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. She complained of being hot. They shared a look that excluded us.
Table chit chat. The Big I Am had a tale: Daughter sick in the garden at the early hours of morning, she recovered, then shared vodka until the sun peeped over the horizon.
Husband looked at me; a look of concern I shared with him.
The Big I Am aired a second tale. Bella was spending her investment, her bank balance had dwindled.
Husband and I shared our look of concern with her.
I made a mental note to ring the builders, and chase her house.
We chastised her, reminded her the money was for property, not frippery. She denied spending, said Mr Big I Am was exaggerating.
We believed her. We thought him odd, telling tales to cause unrest.
The rift he’d placed between my daughter and I, he would engineer and hack this chasm into an abyss.
We did not consider our daughter had become adept at telling her lies.