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for my actions.
    I can still … taste the pleasure. That thrill when the knife slips in and the blood oozes like liquid velvet.
    I envision the look of calm on a dead face, relax my jaw, and take a deep breath. I adjust the cuffs and collar of my blouse and push my hair behind my ears. Keeping up appearances, even at home, is important for my rehabilitation.
    I stride down the hallway, head high, towards the kitchen. My son’s shadow ripples over the tiled floor as I approach the arched entranceway. The fridge door opens and closes. Its contents rattle like the music of water-filled crystal glasses. Along with a running bath, it is perhaps the only other relaxing sound I ever hear in this household.
    “Fuckin’ bitch fuckin’ ate it.” Mick scoffs, snorts, coughs, spits into the sink. It splatters like fresh fish gut.
    I lean against the archway, fold my arms under my breasts, and try to drill a hole through Mick’s head with a glare. I am going to have to tackle this with a little less “nice.” I have been trying so hard. To be a good mum. To get this family back on track. But maybe I’ve got the balance wrong.
    So I just say it.
    “What did the fucking bitch fucking eat, Mick?” I raise my eyebrows, trying to maintain my assertiveness from the morning.
    He looks up and smirks, shoves a hand down the front of his jeans, and rearranges his package. I look him up and down. Mick winks, spits into the sink again, and walks out without uttering another word.
    “You did not just walk away from me,” I call towards the ceiling, trying to disguise my tears with volume. “You come back and apologize. And apologize for this morning in class.”
    Mick’s bedroom door slams, and the boom of heavy metal sucks the oxygen out of the house. This is a prison. And I built it myself. But how could I have possibly done any better? I have been the perfect textbook mother since Ibrahim left. Is it the lack of a sane father that has done this? If only I could get him to see someone, to talk to someone, then maybe we’d have a chance.
    I pull out a chair and sit down. The kitchen bench and sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. There’s something pink and sticky that smells like cough syrup all over the floor by the dishwasher and broken brown glass sitting mercilessly at the base of the garbage bin.
    I cry. My shoulders shake, and my throat constricts from the effort of keeping quiet. I am sick , I think. The chaos that was this household before my husband left was the only thing that kept me sane when my parents died. Especially when Mick said he couldn’t wait until I followed suit.
    I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands, prop a shiny carving knife on the windowsill above the sink, and glance at it now and again, while I clear away the mess.

Chapter 12
    Nash: She wouldn’t, would she?
    As the chicken breasts grill, I prepare a salad, wondering where Mia is. It’s been months since she’s been late home from school. I was all hyped to have that talk. But now my confidence has waned. I couldn’t bring myself to call Celeste either. What’s got into me? Crikey. Have I become that much of a wuss? I’m a father to a beautiful young woman, and I can’t even bring myself to talk to her about something that surely worries her as much as it does me. She’s quite mature for her age sometimes, and she can probably handle it, but I feel like all I’m good for nowadays is putting my nose in where it’s not wanted.
    I think seriously about what Sonia said in the staff room as I chop lettuce into paper-thin strips. In the back of my mind, Celeste nags that I’m going to cause the leaves to oxidize. Who gives a … ? Would Mia really think I’m trying to help her lose weight because I’m ashamed of the way she looks? I reckon she’d understand I just want what’s best for her. Sonia has to be overreacting, speaking from her own insecurities. Why do the skinny ones lack more self-confidence than the overweight ones?
    Mia