Woman In Home
I’m doing the dishes. I’ve just finished up dusting, and before that I swept and mopped the floorboards from head to toe. I also vacuumed the rugs and the carpets. He told me not to bother as he picked up his keys from the table, but I suppose I’m marking my territory, in a way.
I’m not entirely comfortable yet, but I’m getting there.
The children are free to play out the front, he told me. It’s a quiet street, and they look after each other, he said as he stood in the doorway smiling at me. He blew me a kiss and said, welcome to the family. Then he closed the door. I listened to his children (our children?) playfully attack him on the other side.
I’m drying the dishes and the two eldest of the three kids are standing in front of me. Behind them is the youngest. She is weeping uncontrollably. I pick her up. I ask what happened.
‘He pushed her on to the road.’
The eldest points to his sibling.
‘No I never.’
‘Yes you did, liar.’
They start shoving. I reluctantly ask them to stop. They do. I’m surprised that they listen.
‘She fell, and I tried to catch her.’
The sobbing mess in my arms points to her knee. It has a small graze on it. I plonk her on a chair, and ask her where the band-aids are. She points to a cupboard above the fridge. I open it. The shoving resumes. I look over to them and they stop. The eldest speaks.
‘She had his pokemon …’
I ask what a pokemon is. The explanation I receive baffles me.
‘I let her have it. I said she could …’
‘… and he snatched it, and pushed her over.’
‘That. Never. Happened.’
Pushing resumes. I stop it with an eyebrow this time.
More contrasting exposition from the boys. I dab at the little one’s knee. She has stopped sobbing, and is inhaling in that snorty way that kids do when in recovery from a good cry. I ask her to be brave. She gives me the hand. The boys’ stories are white noise.
Must I get to the bottom of this?
I suppose I have to. Then I realise I have the truth before me. I ask the little one, if the second eldest pushed her over because of the pokie man. She nods. I look at the boy. The fight has left him. Guilt reigns. I ask him what his father would do in this situation.
‘He would put me in time out.’
I ask the eldest what time out is. He explains. I ask the second eldest how long he should be put in the corner.
‘About twenty minutes.’
The other two nod. The punishment fits the crime. Does he need to be escorted?
‘No.’
Forlorn. Cute.
I’m not entirely comfortable yet, but I’m getting there.
The children are free to play out the front, he told me. It’s a quiet street, and they look after each other, he said as he stood in the doorway smiling at me. He blew me a kiss and said, welcome to the family. Then he closed the door. I listened to his children (our children?) playfully attack him on the other side.
I’m drying the dishes and the two eldest of the three kids are standing in front of me. Behind them is the youngest. She is weeping uncontrollably. I pick her up. I ask what happened.
‘He pushed her on to the road.’
The eldest points to his sibling.
‘No I never.’
‘Yes you did, liar.’
They start shoving. I reluctantly ask them to stop. They do. I’m surprised that they listen.
‘She fell, and I tried to catch her.’
The sobbing mess in my arms points to her knee. It has a small graze on it. I plonk her on a chair, and ask her where the band-aids are. She points to a cupboard above the fridge. I open it. The shoving resumes. I look over to them and they stop. The eldest speaks.
‘She had his pokemon …’
I ask what a pokemon is. The explanation I receive baffles me.
‘I let her have it. I said she could …’
‘… and he snatched it, and pushed her over.’
‘That. Never. Happened.’
Pushing resumes. I stop it with an eyebrow this time.
More contrasting exposition from the boys. I dab at the little one’s knee. She has stopped sobbing, and is inhaling in that snorty way that kids do when in recovery from a good cry. I ask her to be brave. She gives me the hand. The boys’ stories are white noise.
Must I get to the bottom of this?
I suppose I have to. Then I realise I have the truth before me. I ask the little one, if the second eldest pushed her over because of the pokie man. She nods. I look at the boy. The fight has left him. Guilt reigns. I ask him what his father would do in this situation.
‘He would put me in time out.’
I ask the eldest what time out is. He explains. I ask the second eldest how long he should be put in the corner.
‘About twenty minutes.’
The other two nod. The punishment fits the crime. Does he need to be escorted?
‘No.’
Forlorn. Cute.
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