The Great Mistake: Part 1

Dad and Heather are sitting at the kitchen table talking seriously. They are so boring that I don't even get curious what they're going on about anymore. It's never about me.
“Morning Eye.”
Dad calls me Eye, spelt like the organ. It was his idea to call me Iris because he wanted me to really see, or something. Normal people like it because it's the name of a flower.
“Morning Pops. Heather.” I salute and sit down, still thinking about Mum's writing, all backwards like that. I wonder what she's got to say. The thing with Mum is she's actually really interesting. Even if I wanted to hate her, which I obviously don't, it would be incredibly difficult. She's funny and clever and glamorous. I can see why Heather would hate her.
“I've made you eggy bread,” Heather says over the noise of butter frying. The whole kitchen stinks of the stuff. I'd really rather not eat anything but it's all part of making Mum's letter last so I just get on with it.

Dad is looking at me and I can tell he wants to ask me about the letter from Mum. I'm sure he's still hankering after her. Still wishing she'd come back. I have this recurring daydream that she just walks back in one day and seeing her Heather just nods. Very graciously, admits defeat. Nods as if to say, There's no way I can fight you, I'll get my stuff. And we all help her pack, Mum and Dad and me. We're very quiet and helpful and Heather keeps a stiff upper lip. She gives Dad a sad little kiss and me a hug and I say thank you for everything and then she goes. Just like that.
I never daydream much further than that because I can't really imagine how Mum and Dad would interact in reality. But the first bit's my favourite and I daydream that a lot.

Heather slides the shiny, eggy bread from the pan onto my plate and passes me the ketchup. Dad hands me a cup of tea.
“I thought we could have a barbecue tonight,” he says. “Are you up for that Eye?”
I make an affirmative noise through my chewing.
“Don't talk with your mouth full Iris.”
“I didn't say a word.” I say showing her my eggy bread. It gets her every time.
She tuts and stands up to leave the kitchen. But a minute later she's back, smile reset, holding out a card.
“This one's from me. I think you're old enough now.”
“Thanks.”
Dad puts a hand on Heather's shoulder and they both keep looking at me so I open the thing straight away.
It's a homemade birthday card – a Heather special – with another envelope inside. I take time to look at the card, as if that interests me then get stuck into the second envelope. It's definitely big enough to hold notes, plural.
It seems to hold some kind of booklet.
“I don't understand.”
Heather and Dad look at each other. Heather looks at me.
“Human Writes?“
“It's a charity that provides people awaiting execution with pen friends.”
“I don't understand.”
“Heather thought it would be nice for you to...”
“You've bought me a Death Row penpal for my forteenth birthday?”
“She isn't due to be executed for years, so you'll have plenty of time...”
“To get to know her before she is killed? What's wrong with you? Why didn't you just give me twenty quid or something?”
“Heather just wanted you to learn the value of life, Iris. The unfairness of things.”
“Why does she want me to learn that today? It's my birthday. It's sunny outside. I thought we might have a barbecue, you know, hang out. And then you present me with this at breakfast time? What's wrong with you people?”
“Iris.” Heather pauses. I know you've got a lot to deal with today but don't take it out on me. I was just trying to teach you something. I genuinely thought you were old enough to handle it. Obviously, I was mistaken.”
I'm frowning viciously at Heather and I can see Dad glaring at me out the corner of my eye. A lot to deal with today. What's she on about? I have less to deal with today than ever. Today is a dream after 364 days of nightmares. Still, I know what to do.
“I'm sorry Heather. I just wasn't expecting it. You have to admit, it's a little unconventional. Thank you. ”
They both relax. Dad picks up the Independent.
I just don't know what it is with grown ups and sorry. They love it. They can't get enough. It's like they never realised it's possible to apologise and not mean it. Like kids are the only ones that have worked that out.

I pick my cup of tea up and walk out the room like it's all in the past. I don't want them going on and on about it. But out in the hall I give them double Vs, short sharp stabs upwards of Fuck you Heather and Fuck you Dad. Thank god I've got Mum.