I was in the queue at our local supermarket some time ago with my toddler twins and 8 year-old step-daughter. I had seen the woman who served us – Lily – before; that was the year I spent in Safeway for both groceries and company.
This particular morning my step-daughter had joined us and we were running late for a party for which we still had to buy a present. The boys were wriggly and irritable. I struggled to find my credit card as the twins howled, shredding Cruskit onto the floor. My step-daughter chattered on about which Little Miss mug might be most appropriate for her friend Jasmine. While she was espousing the merits of Little Miss Sunshine vis-a-vis Little Miss Giggle Lily leant across the counter and said, ‘Your daughter, she’s very pretty. She looks just like you.’
Now, usually I explain. Usually I stop and explain that Madeleine is my step-daughter. Nip it in the bud, but in the chaos of that morning I let it slip, probably because I was now wading ankle-deep in soggy Cruskit, probably because the twins were straining at their harnesses like sniffer dogs, probably because Madeleine was rabbiting on about Little Miss Sunshine and probably, just probably because I hadn’t slept for 18 months and hell I was flattered that this woman might just think my gorgeous olive-skinned, bright-blued-eyed, button-nosed, bee-sting-lipped, whip-thin step-daughter and I could possibly be related. But mainly because sometimes I just can’t be bothered with the rigmarole and it was easier to smile and say ‘thank you’.