Page 21 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
She smiles back. It’s the cheekiest smile I know. It’s one that peeks over the line, every time, looking for trouble. She has such bravery, such wonder in life. But confidence too – who is that all from? She’ll chat to anyone and go up on any stage at a Christmas play and sing as loudly as her little lungs let her. She’ll walk up to people in supermarkets and tell them she likes their jumpers.
‘Then do you want to watch some YouTube with me?’ she asks. ‘We could snuggle on the sofa and get the big blankets.’
‘Is it those videos of the people playing with toys?’ I ask. ‘I don’t get those videos.’
‘Oh no, it’s a dance tutorial for a song. Isaac and I are learning it.’
‘You like Isaac, don’t you?’ I ask as I go to heat some milk up in the microwave.
‘He’s not my boyfriend. But I think he’s very interesting. He’s very smart.’
I sigh to hear her choosing someone for the strength of their character rather than their looks.
‘Do you like him?’ she asks.
‘He’s very… entertaining,’ I say, taking the polite route.
‘People like him and me need to stick together,’ she adds.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘I mean, we’re different. I’m adopted, for example. I don’t have a dad. We don’t look the same,’ she says, very matter-of-factly, her finger pointing between the two of us.
Her last three statements seem to penetrate a part of me that leaves me staring at our microwave longer than I need to. She senses my upset and wraps her arms around me.
‘It’s not a bad thing, Mummy. Different isn’t bad. Aunty Lucy tells us that all the time.’
I smile, heaping spoonfuls of hot chocolate powder into the warm milk, but there’s worry there. There’s the worry that we don’t match, that this little unit that we call family is flawed in some ways because it’s not conventional. I can’t work out if it’s a good or bad thing. Cleo climbs on a chair to remind me about her marshmallows.
‘Have I upset you?’ she asks, dipping her fingers into the bag, topping her hot drink with at least five mini marshmallows too many.
‘I just worry. I worry that we’re not like other families, that people will be mean. Sometimes people will chat about other people, especially people who are different.’
‘That’s called gossip. People gossip when their own lives are so boring they have nothing left to talk about.’
I laugh as she props her elbows up on the kitchen counter.
‘Let me guess, Aunty Lucy?’
‘That was Aunty Meg, and we don’t need a dad. I think we’re good, just the three of us for now. The Three Amigos, The Three Musketeers. There’s not a good one for four if we adopted anyone else.’
I think what I’d do if I adopted a man. Please can I have one at about the six-foot mark, maybe someone who knows to wipe down the splashbacks of a kitchen and can pee in a straight line?
‘We’ll just stick at three for now then.’
‘Deal.’ She links her little finger into mine to seal that promise. ‘YouTube?’
‘Do I have to?’ I ask, pained.
‘Yes. And you must dance too. You need to dance more. Dancing is life. Isaac told me that.’
‘He is smart, eh?’
‘The smartest.’
6
Tom, where are you? Do let me know, I haven’t heard from you in a while and I can have all the cups of tea with your mum but she will always worry and I will be the person she always calls so go easy on her and drop her a line or two. I can’t keep track of where you are any more. We should have just put a tracker on you like a pigeon.
