The Daughter by Jane Shemilt

young to see that, but surely you can.”
    â€œTed, it’s art.”
    â€œI can’t believe you’d use that clichéd excuse for pornography.”
    â€œIt’s not pornography.” My voice was rising too. “She was wearing underpants, for God’s sake; she kept her coat on until she was hidden. Nikita was there. Naomi threw her clothes out to her as she undressed.” I paused for breath. How could he think Theo would exploit her? He and Naomi had always been the closest of the three children, even when they were little.
    â€œYou’re missing the point again,” he said curtly.
    I stepped back from the fight. There was no time.
    â€œLet’s talk about it tonight, with Theo.”
    â€œNothing more to say.” He shrugged.
    Time had run out. Arguments were often left unfinished and seemed to disappear, untended bonfires burning out, leaving only a pile of ashes behind. Ted, with clothes on, was harder, surer, walked quicker. He gave me a kiss that missed my mouth, his eyes somewhere else. The door shut behind him.
    Naomi appeared as I was gathering my bags. She still looked tired, despite the night’s sleep, and moved around the kitchen slowly, finding folders, scarf, and hockey boots. She seemed absorbed in the day to come and didn’t look at me when I suggested breakfast.
    â€œNot hungry,” she said briefly, knotting her scarf as she watched herself in the little mirror on the wall by the phone.
    â€œHave something, darling. Toast? An egg?”
    She wrinkled her nose in disgust without replying, and then bent to the dog.
    â€œLove you, Bertie.”
    She kissed the air above his head and left; the door slammed. She came back for her cell phone and left again.
    The boys appeared, sleepy and silent. Ed looked disheveled, with unknotted tie and half-­combed hair. He poured muesli and ate it slowly, reading the side of the packet with concentration. Theo leaned against the fridge door eating the rest of the apple cake, his eyes closed. Then they left, bumping shoulders as they went out the door together, both carrying Theo’s art folder, shoulders hunched.
    It was time for me to leave. I followed them but turned at the door, sucked back by the warm disorder. Teeth marks in the buttered rind of toast, a glittery pool of spilled sugar, bent packets, open jars. I wanted to stay, shut the mess into cupboards, and restore order to the surfaces. My mother, as her younger self, seemed to be watching from the shadows behind the hanging coats in the hallway, so close I could feel her breath behind my neck, her chin on my shoulder. She was telling me to stay, tidy up, and keep watch as she had done. I quickly pulled the stacks of shoes apart until I found the new red ones with heels. I put them on, becoming the professional, the doctor, and I slammed the door shut behind me.
    Outside I met Anya being dropped off by her husband. Under her coat was the patterned apron she wore to clean our house. She always worked calmly, her gentle hands honoring each task. No matter how hard I tried, I ended up pushing at things angrily, running from one unfinished job to the next. She and her husband came from Poland. Whenever I saw him, he scowled at me. I wanted to tell him that Anya made my life possible, but that would have made him angrier, as if my life was more valuable than hers. His hostile glance flickered over my warm coat, the leather bag, the tall house behind me.
    As I unlocked the car, I waved to Mrs. Moore opposite; she was putting out her small items for recycling. Ted had left ours on the sidewalk last night: the rinsed bottles of Shiraz, the exotic cardboard sleeves from ready meals, copies of The Telegraph folded neatly edge to edge. Mrs. Moore straightened up, her hand in the small of her back. She looked toward me and her old mouth cracked open briefly. I could just see the soft shape of her son, Harold, as he bobbed uncertainly at the bay window. He was