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“It’s broken!” Angelique says.
“I’m so sorry,” Isabelle tells her.
Angelique gives me an angry look but takes Isabelle’s hand sweetly. “It’s not your fault,” she says, and turns back to me.
It’s my fault then. My daughter has just chosen the side of the enemy over her own flesh and blood.
“I think we can fix it,” Isabelle says. “Look, it’s just bent. Should we try?”
“I’ll get you a new one,” I say, feeling strangely defensive and on the outside.
“I don’t want a new one. I want mine,” she says. This fight is with me, and I get the feeling she’s expressing feelings she has subconsciously been holding back.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I ask her sharply, too sharply. She’s in her pajamas and it’s almost nine o’clock.
“That was my fault,” Isabelle says when Angelique presses against her leg, both hands around one of Isabelle’s now. “I wanted to kiss her goodnight and I woke her up by accident.”
I look from my daughter to this invader in my house.
“Everything all right?” We all turn to find my brother standing at the door.
“Fine,” I say. Taking Isabelle by the arm, I walk her to the door. “See that Isabelle waits downstairs while I tuck my daughter in.”
Isabelle looks at me like she wants to tell me to fuck off but holds her tongue and it’s a good thing she does.
“Isabelle?” Zeke says.
“We can fix the book together tomorrow. If your daddy lets us, that is. Goodnight, sweetheart,” Isabelle says before spinning on her heel and walking out of the door right past my brother.
My hands fist, my jaw tenses.
“Why don’t I tuck Angelique in. I’m overdue reading her a bedtime story anyway,” Zeke says.
I nod, bend down to kiss Angelique on top of her head, but she doesn’t wrap her arms around my neck like she usually does. Instead, she folds them across her chest and makes a point of turning away, letting me know she’s angry.
“Go. You’re already late,” my brother says.
I gently lift my daughter’s chin up. “We’ll fix it tomorrow.”
She glares at me and I don’t know what else to do but leave. But the moment I’m out of her bedroom, anger returns.
I find Isabelle downstairs by the door, arms folded across her chest looking as petulant as Angelique.
“She’s five. You’re nineteen,” I tell her as I take the light wool cloak off the rack and drape it over her shoulders. “Don’t pout.”
“I’m not pouting. You were a jerk. Did you apologize to her?”
“Apologize for what?”
“For scaring the crap out of us when you barged in like that!”
“Why didn’t you eat dinner?”
She rolls her eyes. “How long were you standing there anyway?”
“You mean was I there long enough to hear you ask about her mother? To hear my daughter ask if you’re her mommy?”
I don’t realize I’ve walked her backwards until her back is pressed to the wall and I’m looming over her.
