Page 4 of Connectio
Chapter Two
“Happy birthday!” I hand Mum a bunch of flowers and some bath bombs from Lush then wrap my arms around her tiny frame. Like me, she could pass as one of Snow White’s dwarfs.
Mum buries her nose in a rose and breathes in. “Thank you, dear. They’re lovely.”
I mouth, “Hi” to Dad, who’scarving a roast beef at the bench behind her. He slips a small sliver of meat into my mouth, presses his “shh” finger to his lips, and winks.
“Mm,” I mumble, quickly swallowing the evidence. “Smells delicious, Dad.”
Mum pulls back and holds me at arm’s length, her eyes suspicious slits. She then assesses my appearance, frowns, and pulls the hair ties out of my braids before flicking my hair with her hands so it fans over my shoulders.
“Hey!” I touch a tendril and frown back at her. “What did you do that for?”
“Piggytails, Elizabeth? Really? You’re too old for piggytails.”
“I am not. My students love them.”
“It’s the weekend; you’re not seeing your students until Monday.”
Mum ducks into the dining room, so I give Dad a kiss on the cheek then make my way to where my sister, Fiona, is jiggling her daughter, Isabella, on her hip.
“Hey,” I say to Fi and hold my arms out.
Izzy launches into them, so I kiss the crook of her chubby neck, making her giggle.
“Thank God,” my sister says. She cracks her neck from side to side then stretches her back. “She’s getting too heavy to hold all the time.”
“So don’t hold her all the time.”
Fi deadpans, “It’s not that easy, Lib.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it is.”
She purses her lips. “I was going to tell you not to listen to Mum, because I liked your piggytails, but now you can kiss my arse.”
Covering Izzy’s ears, I turn her away from her potty-mouthed mother and say, “Naughty Mummy said a bad word.”
Fi rolls her eyes at me just as Mum returns with a large crystal vase for her flowers.
“Did you girls plan this?” she asks, smiling at us.
“Plan wha—”
“Yes,” Fi interrupts, her grin smug.
“How sweet.” Mum happily arranges her lilies and roses. “New flowers and a new vase. Aren’t I spoilt?”
Leaning closer to my gloating sister, I murmur, “Did you get her that ginormous vase for her birthday?”
She nods. “Yep.”
It looks expensive, much more expensive than my flowers and bath bombs.
“You’re such a suck,” I add.
“That’s why I’m the favourite and you’re not.”
I glare at her, but she’s right; she is the favourite. Always has been. Mum’s golden child—married, successful, the bearer of a grandchild.
