The wardrobe was small, but it smelled like cedar and old coats, and that made it okay. Mum had lined the bottom with a blanket and tucked my stuffed bear beside me. She called it quiet time, and sometimes it lasted until the moon came out.
“ Be good, my sweet boy, ” she’d whisper, pressing a kiss to my forehead before closing the door.
The latch clicked like a secret. I didn’t mind at first. I liked the way the light peeked through the slats, how I could hear the house breathing. Pipes groaned. Floorboards creaked. And sometimes, mum would hum, low and slow, like a lullaby that forgot its tune.
She always came back. Sometimes with an apple, sometimes with a slice of bread and butter. She’d open the door just enough to pass it through, her fingers trembling. Her eyes looked tired, like she’d been crying, but she smiled anyway.
“ Daddy’s resting, ” she’d say. “ We’re having a special night. ”
I didn’t ask questions. I was five, and as a five year old I knew better than to ask grown up questions. I haven’t heard daddy’s voice in days. Not the loud laugh, not the stomping boots, not even the clink of the brown bottles under the sink. The house was quieter now, but not peaceful, just strange, like something has been taken out of it and the walls haven’t noticed yet.
The first night in the wardrobe, I counted the apples. One, green and sour. The second night, two, sweeter. By the third, I stopped counting. I started listening. There were sounds. Grunting. Thumping. The scrape of something heavy across the floor. Once, I heard mum talking, not to me, not to anyone I could see. Mum’s voice was soft, but sharp, like she was arguing with the air.
“ I said stop, ” she hissed. “ You don’t get to win.”
Then silence. Then humming.
I curled up tighter in the wardrobe, clutching a bear to my chest. Bear didn’t mind the dark. Bear also didn’t ask where daddy was.
Daddy used to carry me on his shoulders and call me “champ,” but sometimes, daddy shouted. Sometimes, he smelled like the brown bottles. Sometimes, mum cried in the bathroom with the tap running. I didn’t like those nights, but this was different. Mum was quite now. Not sad, just… still. Like she was waiting for something to catch up to her.
On the fifth night, she opened the wardrobe and knelt down and stroked my hair.
“You’re my good boy, ” she said.
Her hands were red, like she’d been painting. She smelled of her red wine, of onions, and something smoky. Her eyes looked far away. I wanted to know where daddy was, but the words stayed tucked behind my teeth. I didn’t want to make myself cry.
“ Bath time, ” she said, her voice soft and melodic. “Let’s get you clean for dinner.”
I blinked and asked mum, “ Is daddy coming? ”
She paused. Her smile twitched.
“ Not tonight, “ she mumbled. “ I’m sorry. Just us tonight. ”
The bath was warm. Mum scrubbed behind my ears and washed my hair with lavender shampoo. Mum wrapped me in a towel and dressed me in my favourite pyjamas, the ones with the rockets. Mum even brushed my hair softly like she use to when I was smaller.
The kitchen was glowing. Candles flickered on the table. The air was thick with the smell of stew, rich, meaty, and sweet. My stomach growled. Mum dished up dinner in a bowl and set it in front of me, cooing, “ Eat up, my boy. ”
Mum sat with me and she was enjoying it too.
I dipped my spoon in. The broth was thick, dotted with carrots and potatoes. I blew on it like mum taught me, then took a bite. It was good. Really good. The meat was soft and smoking, like the kind daddy used to grill on Sundays before the shouting started. It warmed my belly and made my eyes heavy. I ate slowly, savouring it, Mum watched me, as she was eating too, her eyes wide and wet. She didn’t blink much, She didn’t speak. Then I saw it.
A piece of meat, pale and yellow, curled at the edge, then I saw the others. They had marks, black ink, faded and familiar. Shape. Letters. I blinked. I knew those marks. I’d traced them with my finger once, on daddy’s arm. A snake curled around a dagger.
I looked up. Mum was smiling, but her lips were trembling.
“ Mummy, ” I wondered, pointing to my bowl. “ This has daddy’s tattoo. ”
The room went quiet. The candles flickered. Mum didn’t move. I stared at mum, spoon still in my hand, trembling.
“ Where’s Daddy? “
The End
Bio:
Brittany Szekely is a mother of three living in Coffs Harbour, NSW, Australia. She is a writer of poems and short stories and sometimes paints abstract art.