The Wrong Daughter

by Dandy Smith

Alone. That word doesn’t carry enough gravitas. There isn’t a word big enough or wide enough or sturdy enough to bear the weight of its meaning.

Wanting to please your parents is one of those universal instincts, like opening your mouth to apply mascara.

I grew up tethered to the rotting corpse of my presumed-dead sister.

The only thing more valuable than being loved is being known by someone. Truly known.

I know loneliness, the taste and smell and shape of it. The clawing desperation to slough it off like dead skin. Loneliness is the most harrowing kind of poverty.

Beauty fades, brilliance breeds legacy.

if I’m the one battling morning sickness, sore tits and heartburn, going through the trauma of labour and having to be sewn back together afterwards, I would not crown my baby with the father’s name simply because it is the done thing.

‘You can love something so much that you hold onto it too tightly and crush it to death.’

This admission hangs in the air between us like ripe apples. I feel him plucking them free, holding them up and inspecting them. He takes a bite.

Finally, he lifts his sister’s lifeless body from the pond and lays her on the ground. He strokes her wet hair back from her face. Her beautiful, perfect face. He stays with her until the sun comes up.