She closed her eyes again, pressed her skull into the wall. How had she never seen what a useless child Nic was? Even without the house of horrors she should have realised. What kind of forty-something woman paints her nails like she’s taking art direction from a kindergartener? How can you be that old and not only have no partner but no evident history of ever having had one? No kids. Same shit job her whole adult life. Texts her uni student niece every single day, hangs out with her on weekends. And lucky she does, because otherwise she would have lain alone in that shit-pile until she rotted. What kind of person can go days with no one noticing they’re not around, not even answering the phone? Have no one to visit them in hospital? No one to call on for backup before a difficult appointment?

But Lena had always known Nic was a child, hadn’t she? That she’d been able to think like one, at least. When six-year-old Lena was scared of the dark, Nic didn’t tell her to stop being silly like Mum did; she said of course the dark was scary, because you couldn’t see what was there. You’re being very logical. So we’ll leave on the hall light and then any nasties thinking of sneaking through won’t even bother. When nine-year-old Lena cried because she hadn’t been invited to Sara Frost’s Pretty Princess Pamper Party, Mum said, Good. Pedicures and facials for nine-year-olds is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. But Aunty Nic booked the two of them into a proper grown-up beauty salon and they took a thousand photos of themselves with face masks and head wraps and holding glasses of champagne (whisked out of Lena’s hand as soon as the shots were taken) while the girls who went to the party only had pictures with clear nail polish and babyish pink lemonade.

It had always been the way: Mum had taught her about budgeting; Nic had shown her how blowing fifty dollars on a high tea made you feel like you had thousands in the bank. Mum had shown her how to use pads and then tampons, warned her it’d be a pain every month for the next forty years so better get used to it now; Nic had told her that she now had a monthly free pass to sleep in, binge on chocolate, skip her turn at making dinner and, if she had a male teacher or boss, get out of pretty much anything. Tell ’em you’re bleeding like a stuck pig and they’ll jam their fingers in their ears while begging you to go home and lie down.