Not My Daughter. Suzy K Quinn

upon a time, I was skinny, sickly and quiet.

      Not anymore.

      My eyes, which my sister used to call cornflower blue, are now steel grey, like the weights I lift. Long hair – once short and naive sandy brown – dyed jet black. Arms no longer bony rods but toned and strong and covered in sleeve tattoos. I’m gym-fit and sturdy. Not the frail cancer survivor I was once upon a time.

      Of course, I’m like every other tough-looking woman – soft as a marshmallow in the middle. Someone hurt me once. So I got strong. No choice really. It was either that or fade away.

      As I reach for silicon glue, I hear footsteps outside the gate.

       Please let this be Liberty …

      But it’s not my daughter. I know this because Skywalker, our German Shepherd, watches the gate like a mafia boss, body stiff, ears pricked. Skywalker doesn’t do the guard-dog stuff when Liberty comes home; he gets excited, leaping up and down, pawing at wood.

      So this must be Nick.

      The lock buzzes and my eight-foot wooden gate swings open, making a big, light hole in the safe little world of our house and grounds.

      I call out from my workshop, ‘Hey, future husband.’

      Nick sidesteps through the gate in his gym gear, biceps bulging with hessian bags of shopping.

      ‘Hello, future wife.’ Nick bounds into the workshop and kisses my hair. ‘I found everything. Everything on the list. Even cashew nut cheese. I have a good feeling, Lorn. A really good feeling.’ Nick has a Yorkshire accent, which makes his boyish optimism sound even more naive.

      Should I tell Nick that my teenage daughter might hate him less if he didn’t try so hard?

      No. Nick is who he is. The man I love. Not with obsessive, fake teenage love. Real, sincere, honest love. It happened slowly, like real feelings should. Not overnight, like …

       Michael.

       Don’t think of him today.

      I look around the workshop, mentally naming objects to switch my mind off bad thoughts.

       Silicone glue. Silicone paint. Mould. Plaster of Paris. Movie script.

      Skywalker trots into the workshop, sniffing the shopping bags.

      ‘Hey, pup.’ Nick reaches to pet him, but Skywalker barks and runs off.

      I give Nick a sympathetic smile. ‘Baby steps, right? Listen, let’s start dinner. I need a distraction.’

      ‘She’ll be home any minute,’ says Nick. ‘When I was sixteen—’

      ‘I know. You were hiking alone in the Peak District.’ I lift the shopping bags of sourdough bread, tofu and asparagus. ‘How did that girl of mine get to like all this fancy food? When I was a teenager, all I ate was hot dogs and noodles.’

      ‘It’s great Libs eats mindfully,’ says Nick. ‘I’m proud of her.’

      I bristle at the word ‘proud’ because I know Liberty would. It’s hard, this stepfamily stuff, and somehow Nick always manages to say the wrong thing.

      I kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks for getting the groceries, honey.’

      ‘Anything to get into Liberty’s good books. Do you think she’ll get the results she wants today?’

      ‘Oh, sure. I never worry about Liberty in the smarts department. She’s so clever.’

       Like her father.

      I shake the thought away.

      ‘Anyway, they’re only mock exams,’ I continue. ‘No big deal.’

      ‘Well, she’s had plenty of time to study,’ says Nick.

      ‘Oh, yeah,’ I laugh. ‘I never let her out.’

      I mean this as a joke, but it comes out sort of sinister.

      ‘Don’t you think it’s time to let Liberty out in the evenings?’ Nick asks. ‘She’s old enough. I was working at her age.’

      ‘We have different parenting styles, Nick. I parent Liberty my way, you parent Darcy yours.’

      ‘We’re supposed to be a team. Teams work together. We have two kids between us. We should parent them both together. Like a family. And we do parent Darcy together. It’s just Liberty—’

      ‘Look, I know the principle is a good one. But the kids are different ages.’

      ‘Why can’t I be a dad to Liberty? You’re amazing with Darcy. Better than her own mother sometimes …’

      ‘God, don’t say that, Nick. Darcy’s mom is doing her best. It’s a tough job raising a little girl with special needs.’

      ‘Yeah, okay. But you have to admit, Michelle doesn’t get Darcy like you do. The special needs thing doesn’t fit with her image.’ He makes a face. ‘You’re different. You don’t care if Darcy screams her head off in public. And Darcy loves you for that, Lorna. She feels safer here than she does at Michelle’s house. If you can parent her, why can’t I try with Libs?’

      ‘Liberty’s sixteen.’

      ‘Exactly. Sixteen. Don’t you think it’s time to loosen the reins and let her live a little?’

      ‘Sleeping Beauty had a really bad year when she was sixteen.’

      I head into the house with the groceries, throwing a backwards glance at the gate, willing Liberty to buzz herself in.

      She doesn’t.

      I hate this part of the day.

      ‘She’ll be back any minute. Okay?’ Nick gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘You worry way too much.’

      I nod, but I’m not reassured.

      Inside, I dump groceries on the counter and watch the front gate through the kitchen window.

      I never thought I’d live in a house like this – a little piece of English history. Growing up in America, my mother called the many different 1950s homes we lived in ‘antique’. Around here, most of the homes are four hundred years old.

      ‘Okay, so how do we cook this stuff?’ says Nick, looking at the ingredients.

      ‘Um …’ I glance at the kitchen window. ‘Not sure.’

      ‘Just playing devil’s advocate,’ says Nick, ‘but what if Liberty gets bad grades in these mock exams? What’s the plan? I mean, we can’t ground her, can we? Since you don’t let her out of an evening.’

      ‘Just as long as she tried her best.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’m going to give her until 4.30 p.m. Then I’m calling the police.’

      Nick laughs. ‘They’re going to lock you up for wasting police time. You’re always overreacting. Liberty will be with her friends, probably writing songs or something. She’s okay. Don’t you remember being sixteen?’

      ‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘But mostly I try and forget.’

Once upon a time …

       The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand and said that she, above all others, was his dance partner.

      – CINDERELLA

      The year was 1996. The band were Crimson. The lead singer was Michael Reyji Ray.

      I’d never known a high like it. The heat, the noise, the rush.

      A multicoloured