Dark Mirrors by Siobhain Bunni Read Free Book Online Page A

horror was the tears that were flowing freely down each side of her face. She was crying, there in the kitchen, in front of her mother. She was crying. And it was freaking her mother out.
    “Esmée? Whatever’s the matter?” Embarrassed, not really knowing what to say or what was best to do next, Sylvia moved intuitively to embrace her weeping daughter. Esmée never cried. She was the strength of the family, always had been, keeping an eye on the girls, fixing things, making things right. It was just what Esmée did. She never cried – well, if she did no one ever saw it. Especially not her mum! After Frank’s death her eldest daughter had been the tough one, holding everyone and everything together, reversing the roles and mothering both her and her two sisters. So this discovery was alarming, to the point where Sylvia instantly knew that whatever it was, it had to be significant. Taking her daughter by the shoulders she turned her to face her, eager to comfort and anxious to understand.
    “Esmée dear, whatever’s happened? Please tell me.”
    Despite herself, Esmée couldn’t help the deep sob that erupted like a stifled belch from between her trembling lips. She instinctively moved into the comforting circle of her mother’s arms, unfettering the emotion that she had sworn she wouldn’t, shouldn’t expose.
    “Oh Mum, it’s such a mess!” Esmée’s head found the curve of her mother’s shoulder as the dam that had thus far restrained the tears so efficiently finally gave way. It had been a long time since she had been held like this, had her back rubbed and consolatory words whispered gently in her ear. She was twelve all over again and it felt good to be mothered. She too recognised the reluctant reversal of roles, knowing that normally it was she who gave the hugs and platitudes and reckoned that it was only right now for her to be on the receiving end of such a familiar embrace. Memories of her childhood sparked in her mind: that comforting touch, those safe, warm arms, her mother’s fresh smell, the transfer of emotion from child to parent, willing the bad things to disappear forever, to make it all right. Yes! It felt good and she didn’t want to let go.
    Reluctantly her mother extracted herself from the embrace and taking a tissue from what, when they were kids, seemed like a never-ending store compactly concealed up her sleeve, she handed it to Esmée.
    “Esmée, please talk to me, tell me what’s wrong,” she implored.
    “I’m sorry, Mum,” Esmée sniffed, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
    “What? Didn’t mean for what to happen? Come on sit down, love. Talk to me!” Sylvia moved her towards the table and, pulling out one of the heavy timber chairs, steered Esmée into it. Setting a second in front of the first, she sat down opposite her daughter.
    “Now!” she begged, firmly taking hold of her daughter’s knees, and to a certain degree, control of the situation.
    Sniffing and regaining her breath, Esmée looked at her mother and considered for a moment exactly what she should say and how she should say it. But the words refused to come out, choosing instead to rush around inside her head, like rampant stormtroopers on an international exercise, forming silent statements, none of which made any sense at all. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for her mother’s predictable reaction, willing herself to be calm as she looked into the beautiful grey eyes in an intensely worried face.
    “Mum . . .” She paused, regaining some of her composure. “Mum, I’ve left him.” There! It was out! As simple as that. It felt surprisingly good. Four words forming a remarkable yet basic statement. Taking courage from those first and surprisingly painless words, she scuttled on, pushing the words out before her pluck gave way. “The children and I have moved out. I’ve left him, Mum.”
    She felt her mother flinch and visibly recoil, a confused look