The Fake

A woman suspected her child was a fake.

“My good daughter always eats the food I give her,” the woman said to herself. “She always cleans her plate.”

But no matter how long they sat together at the dinner table, her child refused to eat. Her porridge grew cold. Its surface congealed. Never once did she pick up her spoon or look at her meal, sitting instead with her eyes directed elsewhere. The woman scowled.

“My good daughter always tidies up after herself,” the woman said. “She always takes away the dishes.”

But long after they’d left the table their bowls remained in place. Dust had collected in the corners of the room and the sink was crowded from previous meals. Her child entered the kitchen, glanced around, and left, never once reaching for a broom or running hot water. The woman grimaced.

“My good daughter always comes when I call her,” the woman said. “Daughter, come here! Come here now — come at once!”

Sitting in her empty bedroom, on her thin mattress, the child listened to her mother’s voice. Very soon, she knew, she would have to leave this place or else strangle her mother — close her hands around her throat and choke the old woman until she was dead. Something had to change.

“Daughter!” her mother called out. “Daughter! Daughter! Daughter!”