Page 73 of Guilty Mothers

The thought of having to perform for those three boys pushes away any appetite I had for the food downstairs.

I want to refuse. My mouth opens as she plucks clothes from my wardrobe and lays them on the bottom of the bed. No words come out, and the beating of my heart is deafening.

‘Quick, do as you’re told, and don’t let me down,’ she says, heading back out of the room.

The moment is gone and my mouth closes. I hate my own weakness, but I also fear her anger.

My heart sinks even further when I see that she has chosen a pink satin and taffeta dress embroidered with flowers, with a bodice formed of pink roses which is sure to secure further torment from those boys. There’s a little bolero cardigan to be slipped over the top.

I dutifully put them on after washing my face and brushing my hair.

I head downstairs, all thoughts of food now gone as I start wishing the next few hours away.

‘About time,’ Mom says, sculpting foil lids over the plates of food. ‘They’ll be here any?—’

A banging at the door proves her point. I don’t even have to look to know the heavy knocking came from Henry.

‘Go on then – open the door,’ she says, nudging me towards the hallway.

I do so without question and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I am almost ten and I look like a four-year-old going to a Disney party.

Henry laughs in my face as I open the door. His brothers follow him in and copy his ridicule.

‘Oh, ignore them; they’re just stupid boys,’ Mrs Rushton says, putting her arm around my shoulders. It’s a strange sensation as she draws me towards her, and although alien, I don’t fight it. ‘You look lovely, and they’re just jealous.’

I don’t believe the words; they don’t even sound convincing, but I appreciate her saying it.

Mom removes the covers from the plates and invites the boys to dive in.

‘Can I have a quiche?’ I ask as the boys dive into the food. Mrs Rushton’s presence makes me feel brave.

‘Yours is here,’ Mom says, sliding the covered plate across the table.

I remove the foil. A crustless square of bread containing a thin layer of egg mayonnaise, one mini pizza and one cocktail sausage roll. No quiche or any of the other goodies on offer to the boys. I bite back my dismay and take a seat in the corner.

‘Stop sulking,’ Mom barks.

I try to hide my feelings and attempt not to compare my plate to those of the boys. I am not successful.

‘Leave it then and come and show Mrs Rushton your new walk.’

‘There’s no need…’

‘Nonsense,’ Mom protests, heading for the living room so that everyone else is compelled to follow. ‘She’s been dying to show you.’

I haven’t, but I throw all the food on my plate into my mouth and chew as I follow them to the other room. It’s inevitable, and if I get it over quickly, I won’t have to think about it any more.

Everyone takes a seat; my mother stands at the top of the room so she can see me clearly.

‘She’s moved into a new age range so they’re all new routines,’ Mom explains.

I stand in place, still chewing my last mouthful. The boys are fighting over who gets the other armchair and who has to sit on the sofa. Mrs Rushton looks uncomfortable but smiles at me encouragingly.

I start my walk.

‘Too fast,’ Mom barks.

I start again.