Self-Mending Cups

The Kitchen Argument

Lazily dressed in the house slacks, I make my way to the kitchen. The battleground. Libby will be relishing this confrontation. She is a thirteen-year-old going on thirty-year-old brat. She has a mouth that just doesn't give up. I don't know where she gets it from. Not Melissa. Her mother is a placid sort, who has put up with my antics for a year and only once really given it to me with both barrels.

Libby's father – a guy we see about four times a year – strikes me as a bit of a wet fart. He's got about as much fight in him as a sleeping Buddhist monk. But Libby is something else. I've joked to Melissa that Libby must be the milkman's. She points out all her milk comes from the supermarket. I'm not sure if that was true fourteen years ago, it certainly wasn't last year. During 2020's summer of discontent, Melissa was sourcing her dairy from a woman at work named Jill. Jill's husband was stealing it from his work's canteen. It had been a bit of a necessity in the April, by August it was nothing more than a bad habit.

"Loud enough?" I ask Libby as I enter the kitchen.

"Sorry," she says. "Did it wake you?"

She knows it didn't. What she hopes is that it made me get out of bed earlier than planned.

"Not at all," I say. "I was up already."

"Sure," she says, a shadow coming over her eyes. I'm confident she really does hate me. Not strongly dislike – hate.

She's drinking from the cup I use for morning coffee. I give her marks for effort here. She must have been torn between putting her lips on my mug versus the pleasure of seeing me get angry. Maybe thoughts of the former are what's preventing her taking normal gulps. She sips at the edge, like a bird nipping seeds into its beak.

I retaliate by lifting her unicorn cup from the cupboard. She loves this cup. Her absent father bought it four years ago, when unicorns were age appropriate. Since then, it's become a symbol of how perfect he is. His fleeting appearances have transformed him from flimsy at best to deity. Absence not only makes the heart grow fonder but blinder and dumber too.

"Put it back," she says.

"Libs, I need to drink from something."

"There are plenty of other cups."
"I know," I say. "Yet, you chose mine." I know arguing with a thirteen-year-old isn't very becoming. We just bring the worst out in one another. She sees me as some brother-type figure. I see her as a cheeky shit. I've really tried but I also know when to cut my losses. I'm hoping when she grows up a little more, she'll see it's me and her mum that have paid for all the holidays, extra education, the clothes she wants, presents throughout the year, helped with homework, taken her to ballet, cello practice, tennis class. The list goes on.

"Grow up, Charlie," she says, mimicking Melissa whenever I dare to take Libby on.

"Give me my cup then." It really does sound childish when I hear my voice say that. It's more cringe than any of the Twitter posts friends will probably reveal later.

"I'm not wasting my coffee."

"It's my coffee," I say, cringing inside harder this time. In my defence, what thirteen-year-old gets up and drinks coffee like an office worker first thing in the morning?

Answer: the spoilt know it all in front of me.

She jumps down from the breakfast bar stool.

"Give it me," she says and grabs the handle to the unicorn cup. I'm barely gripping it, my other hand dives into the mouth of the cup to give better purchase.

Libby yanks the handle.

I tug back with both hands, thinking the handle will give way.

The unicorn on the side sways like a horse taking the final furlong at the Grand National (if it ever returns).

Libby has good fighting spirit and her petite frame has hidden strength to match. With a mighty pull, I feel the cup slip from my hands. Fine, she can win. Except, she's overdone it. Libby has as much control over that unicorn as I do. Quick correction: she's as culpable for its impending demise.

We both watch it float through the air. Out of the safety of a shared grasp, that mythical creature will be shattered. Not her father, he'll be fine, but the image of the unicorn as it crashes to the kitchen tiles.

My first thought is I hope the kitchen fitter wasn't lying when he said you could drop a pan full of water on the floor and not cause damage. The cup shatters. My eyes scan the grey tiles. It's a big phew. Not a chip in sight.

"I hate you!" Libby screams. It's an old soundtrack. "My daddy got me that."

"I can get you another," I say.

"Not like that," she says as tears roll from her eyes. Not what I call Libby Tears, the ones she gives Melissa when she wants to stay up late at bedtime. These are unhinged, real. I stop thinking about the floor and realise this cup was special.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"I hate you," she repeats.

"Listen," I say. "I can get you another one or an even better one."

"A better one," she says with disbelief. "That was the one from my daddy."

"I know but—"

"Why are you even here? I hate you."

She storms from the kitchen. I realise it is to hide the outpouring she is struggling to contain.

"Come back," I shout. I don't mean it to sound so harsh, like an order. I just don't want her to be so upset on her own.

"Stop telling me what to do," she replies from the stairs. "You're not my real dad."

This is the one thing we can agree on and have been working tirelessly to enforce. I fell for her mother after she literally fell over me. Libby had to put up with the evil stepfather. Except we never say stepfather or stepdad or anything that pertains to parental structure.

I drift to the sofa. During the course of a hangover, nothing offers a hug like the sofa. Phone based procrastination awaits. The television will play in the background. The selection will be based on its lack of importance – they'll be no top drawer Netflix box sets completed today – balanced by a passing interest. It will become a moving Wikipedia page. It's probably why so many shark and Nazi documentaries are aired. Little bit of learning, some morbid curiosity.

Before I can get sucked into either the phone or the Discovery Channel, I hear the front door slam. It's a defiant slam. The sort of slam only an angry teenage girl can pull off. My urge to go after her is quelled by the lethargy of the hangover. I don't like that Libby is allowed out on her own. That's Melissa's choice, but in my opinion, it's a bad one.

Since the lockdown was lifted last year, she's been mindful of keeping Libby "cooked up inside." The restrictions may have gone but the original dangers still apply. I'll be the first to admit that I'm in no way paternal but I'm risk averse when it comes to what people can be like. There are a lot of wrong'uns out there.

I pause like a statue on one elbow, legs already splayed across the couch. I'm like an android stuck between two conflicting command lines. If I go after her, I'll be going against Melissa's directive and adding fuel to the broken unicorn cup fire. If I stay, I'm being selfish and lazy because I'm too hungover to care.

Melissa's voice delivers both verdicts in my head.