Adolescent Assassin

It’s a strange feeling being hated by someone you love more than life itself.

“Just FUCK OFF!” she’d screamed, head buried in the duvet like a suppressor on a handgun.

An adolescent assassin.

It felt like a bullet.

Came through slightly muffled but clear enough. Perfect diction just like her Mother. She’s an English teacher. She’d be so proud.

My daughter, 16 and full of hormone-fueled rage. For some reason all channeled at me.

Hovering outside the bedroom door in my flip flops (I think they make me look cool), dressing gown gaping, stomach hanging over my boxer shorts tying itself in knots at the sound of her sobbing into a pillow. Every cell in my body wanting to go in, scoop her up and hug her like I used to.

I’m not even sure what I’d said to upset her. Probably one of the classics.

“Hi!”

“How are you?”

“Could you turn your music down please your Mother’s trying to sleep.”

She was trying to sleep. Her Mother. Went to bed around nine, herbal tea in hand, mumbling something about mulching hydrangeas in the morning ready for their winter sleep.

I could use a bit of mulching myself. . . I think.

Either way, she’d be soundo by the time I got to bed. Facing the other way. Always facing the other way. Mouth open, snoring ever so slightly. Making the bed look enormous. The gap between us seemingly getting bigger every night.

I’ll have a stern word with her in the morning about the swearing. The daughter that is not the wife. She hardly speaks to me at all these days. I’d take a swear word from her just to say we’d had a meaningful conversation.

Or . . . maybe I should leave it a couple of days. Or a week. Or maybe, when I grow a spine or she comes out the other side of puberty.

Either way, standing here in my dressing gown, under the dim landing light (Low energy bulb, just doing my bit). The slight whiff of old flip flops and mid-life crisis hanging in the air, having just been told to “F off” by my one and only child.

I realized, I’d reached a new low even for me.

The sobbing dulled to a whimper. It’s the moment just before they fall asleep. I consider a gentle knock but chicken out. My work here is done for tonight.

My feet flip flopped me downstairs to the kitchen. On auto pilot really, not hungry, just not ready to crawl into a cold bed and lay awake for another two hours worrying about the middle east and the war in Ukraine while she snores next to me, all the way across on the other side of the bed.

You see this is one of the things about middle age that no one warns you about. Finding yourself standing in a room not entirely sure why you are there, just waiting for something to happen. Knowing that the younger version of you would have purposefully strode into the kitchen and cracked open a cold beer without giving a thought. Without worrying whether it would make you need an extra wee during the night. Or worse than that, two extra wees.

I open the fridge door and stare in, it bathes me in soft light like an old friend giving me a much-needed hug.

“Welcome, come in, what’s it to be mate, same as yesterday?”

No judgment, no swearing, no tears. Just a gentle hum, a welcoming glow and the sensation of a cool breeze on my skin.

It might be a throwback to the caveman in me but I always find there’s something comforting about eating after trauma, so I peruse the shelves. And there it is, in all its calorific splendor, half a trifle. Or at least that’s what I told myself, it was more like three quarters of a trifle. A spoon sticking out of the bowl (maybe from last night). Not sure how long it’d been there. Could have been left over from last Christmas for all I cared. I didn’t hesitate, just dug in deeply. The spoon emerged with a satisfying squelch only a trifle can make dripping with cold custard and cream. I pushed it straight into my mouth without a second thought, the cream tasted a bit fridgey, slight tang of Camembert. I didn’t care. I took another, bigger this time. Then another. Custard dripped down my dressing gown. A small dollop landing between my toes.

It was the pudding equivalent to sticking my fingers up at my daughter for swearing at me.

It felt good. Briefly.

Then it happened, without warning.

Uncontrollable, shoulder bouncing, nose running, eyes streaming, trifle fueled blubbing. My mouth was so full I couldn’t catch my breath as the sobs poured out of me.

I let it come. No point in trying to hold it in. My dressing gown once again took the brunt of it. I wiped my nose on the sleeve and smeared trifle and snot from the cuff to the elbow. It didn’t matter. My dignity had long since disappeared. Somewhere in my late thirties. Packed its bags and left the party with my metabolism and most of my follicles.

Then the fridge started to bleep at me, apparently it too had boundaries.

I managed to spoon in one more mouthful, half of it running down my chin.

And there I stood . . .

Funny how quickly uncontrollable tears can turn to uncontrollable anger. Burning my insides, Rising in my throat.

Or maybe that was the trifle.

So, I did what every grown man would do in this situation to maintain his Alpha position in the family.

In a blur of toweling, snot and custard my phone was out of my dressing gown pocket and the Amazon App was opened. Before I even knew what I was doing I’d typed into the search.

Electric guitar.

The screen covered in trifley fingerprints.

I scrolled down and there it was. All shiny and red.

Beginners electric guitar package comes complete with amp, strap and tuner.

I asked for a guitar for my tenth birthday. My Mum and Dad gave me a Rubik’s Cube. I think it was broken, never did get it to work.

Sod it.

Click.

In the basket.

Next.

Sweat beading on my forehead.

Paddle board. Comes complete with life jacket and scratch vest.

Sod it.

Scratch vest size small.

Click.

Wait.

Delete.

Scratch vest size large.

Click.

In the basket.

Next.

Inflatable hot tub, 4 person.

I’ll be a babe magnet once I’ve learnt to play my guitar.

Delete.

Inflatable hot tub, 8 person.

Sod it.

Click.

In the basket.

For the first time in a long time, although a little nauseous, it felt like I was winning.

I was sixteen once, full of promise and undiscovered achievements. More hair than I knew what to do with and a six pack(ish).

The world was my oyster, although just like my daughter, I didn’t know it.

The little voice in my head chipped in.

“She’s not doing it on purpose.”

“Just a kid really.”

I could feel the rage starting to ease. The burning in my throat lessening.

I opened the basket and hovered over the buy now button.

I could if I wanted to . . .

I didn’t.

I pressed clear basket.

Ended up buying a book.

“Middle Aged Madness in Middle Aged Men.”

“Your Self-help-guide to Old Age. *Special Prostate Edition.*”

At least it will fit through the letter box.

I hovered briefly outside my daughter’s door in the dim landing light. Every cell in my body wanting to go in and hug her like I used to.

Could just hear her breathing. Mouth open, snoring ever so slightly.

She was just like her mother.

I crawled into a cold bed with mild indigestion and lay awake for another two hours worrying about the middle east and the war in Ukraine while the wife snored next to me, all the way across on the other side of the bed.

“Just FUCK OFF!” she’d screamed, head buried in the duvet like a suppressor on a handgun.

An adolescent assassin.

It felt like a bullet.

It’s a strange feeling being hated by someone you love more than life itself.

I’ll have a stern word with her in the morning about the swearing.

Maybe.