Photo by Maxim Yuryshev on Unsplash
by Laura Besley
when her son asks, ‘Mummy, why do your eyes have mud round them?’ she will be reminded of tonight, the night her father yells at her that no daughter of his is meeting a boy with all that muck on her face. ‘I’m just going for ice-cream with Ruth and Caroline,’ she says. If only she were meeting a boy. Someone like Rupert or Hunter or Joe, who have cars and trust funds and play golf at the weekends. As she lies alone on her bed instead of being out with her friends, she imagines countless futures for herself (secretary? housewife? air stewardess?) and despite the different scenarios, in each one she conjures a deep drawling voice telling her every day how beautiful she is. Not once does she predict a son whose words will echo her father’s, or a husband who has long stopped caring.
Laura Besley (she/her) writes short and very short fiction and enjoys exploring big topics in small spaces. Having lived in the Netherlands, Germany and Hong Kong, she now lives in land-locked central England and misses the sea.
