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And then the dam breaks and Robin gives her daughter the shaking she wanted to give her five minutes ago. Grabs her by both shoulders and shakes and shakes, and watches her stupid little adolescent head bounce around on her neck. All the rage, all the worry, all the resentment courses through her shoulders and into her hands. And inside, she’s shrieking, There! There! see what it feels like now, you horrible little—
She stops, as abruptly as she started. Gemma’s mascara is streaked down her cheeks and her mouth hangs open.
Robin’s cheek stings where her daughter’s hand connected.
‘Go to bed,’ she says.
Gemma is crying, rubbing the tops of her arms.
‘Go to bed,’ she commands.
‘I hate you!’ wails Gemma.
Robin stands and glares. She doesn’t know, of course she doesn’t, that this will be their last exchange.
‘Oh, trust me, darling,’ she replies, triumphantly, ‘I don’t like you a whole lot right now, either.’
