HEAVY ON THE PINK SIDE

Some people grow up learning how to ride bicycles, tie their shoelaces, and make friends. Laura grew up learning how to recognise danger in the sound of approaching footsteps. The first thing Laura learned about love was that it could be loud. It could sound like bottles shattering against kitchen tiles at two in the morning. Like a woman's laughter turning into angry sobs before the night was over. Like a man's heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, each one sending a silent warning through the walls. Love, in her house, had a way of announcing itself before it arrived. And sometimes, it never arrived at all. Laura was seventeen, and it was her birthday. She sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the small pink ribbon in her hands. It was cheap, really. Nothing special. A thin strip of satin she had bought from a roadside shop several months ago because it reminded her of the ribbons her mother used to tie in her hair when she was little. Back then, Vanessa had been different. At least, that was how Laura remembered it. Her mother used to sit her on the edge of the bed, carefully parting her hair with a comb while humming along to whatever song played on the radio. Sometimes, she would complain about how stubborn Laura's hair was, and Laura would giggle because her mother always pretended to be offended when she laughed. Those mornings belonged to another lifetime. Now, the woman downstairs could barely remember what day it was. Laura turned the ribbon between her fingers. Seventeen. She was seventeen years old, and nobody had wished her a happy birthday. Not yet, anyway. She glanced at her phone. No messages from her mother. No birthday calls from her father, who had disappeared from her life so long ago that she sometimes wondered whether he remembered having a daughter at all. Her friends had sent messages that morning. Amara had even promised to buy her a cupcake when they returned to school. Laura smiled faintly at the memory. A cupcake. It was such a small thing, but she had spent the entire morning imagining what it might taste like. Vanilla, probably. She liked vanilla. She liked pink things, too. Pink ribbons, pink notebooks, pink flowers, pink mugs with little hearts printed on them. Perhaps it was childish, but she liked the colour because it reminded her of a version of life she had never experienced. A soft life. A gentle life. A life where people said kind things without expecting anything in return. Laura had once imagined that growing older would bring her closer to that life. Instead, she had spent seventeen years learning how to survive the one she had. A loud crash came from downstairs. Her fingers tightened around the ribbon. Then came her mother's voice. "Marcus! Where did you put it?" Laura closed her eyes. Not today, she thought. Please, not today. But the house had never cared about what Laura wanted. And it certainly wasn't going to start now. Vanessa had been beautiful once. Laura knew this because there were photographs scattered throughout the house that proved it. In one, her mother stood beside a blue car, wearing a white dress and smiling at whoever had taken the picture. Her hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders, and her eyes held a brightness that Laura rarely saw anymore. In another, Vanessa held a baby Laura against her chest. They were both smiling. Laura loved that photograph most. Sometimes, she would take it from its frame and sit on her bed, studying her mother's face. She would try to imagine what Vanessa had been thinking when the picture was taken. Had she been happy? Had she been afraid? Had she looked at her daughter and promised herself that she would protect her from every terrible thing the world could offer? Laura liked to believe she had. It was easier than accepting that perhaps her mother had loved her deeply once and had somehow lost her way. Or perhaps love had never been enough. Vanessa was forty-three now, although she often looked older when she woke after a night of drinking. Her hair was usually tangled, her clothes carelessly thrown together, and her eyes carried the dull exhaustion of someone who had spent years running from problems she refused to face. She drank when she was happy. She drank when she was sad. She drank when Marcus annoyed her, when money was scarce, when the bills arrived, and when the house became too quiet for her liking. Some days, she drank simply because the bottle was there. Laura had stopped asking why. She had learned that questions rarely received answers in their house. More often, they received insults. Or silence. Or the kind of look that made Laura wish she had kept her mouth shut. The bottle was always more important. Laura's biological father had left when she was six. She remembered him in fragments. A navy-blue shirt. A wristwatch that always seemed too big for his arm. The smell of his aftershave when he bent to kiss her forehead before leaving for work. She remembered the way he used to lift her onto his shoulders and let her pretend she was taller than the world. Most of all, she remembered his promises. "I'll take you to the beach next weekend, princess." "I'll be back before your birthday." "Daddy isn't going anywhere." He had said the last one while she sat on his lap, playing with the buttons of his shirt. Three months later, he was gone. At first, Laura believed he was working somewhere far away. Her mother told her that grown-up things were complicated and that children shouldn't worry their little heads about them. Then the phone calls stopped. Then the birthday presents stopped. Eventually, the questions stopped, too. Not because Laura no longer wanted answers, but because she had learned that asking them made her mother angry. "He has another family now, Laura!" Vanessa had shouted one evening when Laura was eight. "Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?" Laura had stood frozen in the doorway, clutching a drawing she had made at school. She hadn't wanted to hear anything. She had only wanted to know why her father didn't love her enough to stay. Her mother had looked at her for a moment before turning away. "Go to your room." So she had. That night, Laura carefully folded the drawing and placed it beneath her mattress. It was a picture of three people holding hands beneath a yellow sun. She never showed it to anyone. Marcus entered their lives when Laura was ten. At first, he seemed like the answer to all the prayers Vanessa had been making. He was confident, well-spoken, and always knew how to make himself look good in front of other people. He brought groceries into the house. He paid bills. He occasionally bought Laura sweets and asked about her schoolwork. He even attended a parents' meeting once, returning home with a smile and telling Vanessa that her daughter was a bright girl. Unfortunately that didn't last long.