I know best
What is happening? I sank down on my haunches in front of my daughter, weariness settling across my back as I studied the pink blotches on her little cheeks. Again…
Four-year-old Daisy stood patiently in the middle of the lounge, her seriousness far too grown-up for her age. She was already well-used to these check-ups, the worried faces of her parents, the endless lotions and tablets.
Rachel came over, kneeling down beside me. Her gentle fingers swept a stray lock of hair back from Daisys forehead.
None of these medicines are helping. At all. Its like giving her water. And the doctors at the surgery… might as well be strangers. Theyve changed her treatment plan three times, and nothing has worked.
I got up and rubbed the bridge of my nose. Outside, the sky was dull and promised another grey, featureless day. We assembled ourselves swiftly wrapped Daisy in her warm coat and not thirty minutes later, we sat in my mums flat.
Margaret sighed, shook her head, smoothing Daisys back.
So little, yet so many medicines. Its a heavy load for a child, she said, settling Daisy on her lap. Daisy buried herself into her nan as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It pains me to see.
If only we could avoid it, Rachel perched at the edge of the sofa, fingers laced tightly. But the allergy just will not budge. Weve cut everything out absolutely everything. Shes only eating the essentials, and even then the rash breaks out.
What do the doctors say?
Nothing definitive. They cant isolate it. Tests, samples, experiments all for what? Rachel gestured at Daisys cheeks. Pink as ever.
Margaret rearranged Daisys collar softly.
Hopefully shell grow out of it. It does happen with kids. Still, theres no comfort in waiting.
I watched my daughter silently. She looked so tiny and thin. Her eyes were enormous, alert. I smoothed her hair, and suddenly memories from my own childhood surfaced pilfering sausage rolls from my mums kitchen on Saturday mornings, begging for sweets, eating homemade jam straight from the jar. Daisy, though… Boiled veg. Plain chicken. Water. No fruits, no treats, none of the usual child-friendly foods. Four years old, and her diet stricter than most ulcer patients.
We really dont know what else to cut, I admitted quietly. Her meals are almost nothing now.
We drove home in silence. Daisy nodded off on the back seat, and I glanced at her in the mirror, checking that at least now she wasnt scratching.
Mum rang, Rachel piped up. She wants Daisy to come over next weekend. Shes got tickets to the puppet theatre, wants to treat her.
Theatre? I shifted gears. Thats good. Shell enjoy a change.
I thought so too. She needs some distraction.
On Saturday I parked near Rachels mums house, lifted Daisy from her car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbed her eyes with tired fists wed woken her up early. She nestled into my shoulder, soft and light as a sparrow.
Patricia swept out onto the porch in her flowered dressing gown, arms raised as though Daisy were a castaway freshly washed ashore.
Oh, my darling, my sunshine, she scooped Daisy up, crushing her to her generous chest. Pale as anything, skinny as a rake. Those diets of yours are ruining her, poor child.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, biting back irritation. It was always this ritual.
We’re only doing whats best, you know that, I said.
Best? Patricia pursed her lips, inspecting Daisy as though shed just come home from a workhouse. Skin and bone! A child needs to thrive, and youre starving her.
She whisked Daisy inside without looking back, the door closing quietly behind them. I stood at the gate, some nagging suspicion scraping away inside me, a notion half-formed and slippery as morning fog. I rubbed my forehead, lingered a little longer listening to the unfamiliar hush, then waved it off and returned to the car.
The weekend felt strange almost forgotten. On Saturday, Rachel and I shopped at Tesco, pushing a trolley between aisles, stocking up for the week.
Back home I wasted three hours fixing the leaking tap in the bathroom itd been dribbling for months. Rachel cleared out wardrobes, bagging up old clothes for charity. The house routine was normal but, without Daisys chatter, unsettlingly quiet, almost incomplete.
Come evening, we ordered pizza the sort with mozzarella and basil that Daisy can never eat. Opened a bottle of red wine. Sat in the kitchen and chatted about work, about the holiday plans, the endless home repairs.
Its nice, Rachel said suddenly, then paused, biting her lip. I mean… you know. Just quiet. Peaceful.
I know, I took her hand. I miss her too. But we needed the break.
On Sunday, I drove to collect Daisy towards evening. The sun sank low, bathing the street in thick orange. Patricias house nestled behind old apple trees, and in the sunset it looked almost cosy.
I opened the gate it creaked and paused.
On the porch sat Daisy. Patricia perched beside her, beaming with that sort of full-grandmotherly happiness. In her hand: a large, golden pasty, glistening with butter. Daisy was eating it cheeks streaked, crumbs on her chin, eyes alight with a joy I hadn’t seen in months.
I stood frozen, then a wave of heat and fury surged through my chest.
I strode over in three steps, snatched the pasty from Patricias hand.
What are you doing?!
Patricia flinched, colour flooding her face.
She raised trembling hands, trying to ward off my anger.
Just a little bit! Only a bite, love, its nothing. Just a pasty
I wasnt listening. I lifted Daisy into my arms she fell silent, clinging to my jacket and carried her back to the car. Strapped her into her seat. My fingers struggled, shaking with anger. Daisy stared at me, lips trembling, on the edge of tears.
Its alright, sweetheart, I soothed her, stroking her hair, voice level You just sit here for a minute, Daddyll be right back.
I shut the door and marched back to the house. Patricia was still on the porch, fiddling the dressing gown hem, blotches spreading over her cheeks.
You dont understand…
Dont I?! I stopped a step away, voice rising. Six months! Six months weve been tearing our hair out! Appointments, tests, allergy checks do you know how much this has all cost? How many sleepless nights, how much strain?
Patricia retreated towards the door.
I only wanted to help…
To help?! I stepped forward. Weve had her on water and boiled chicken! Cut out every possible culprit! And you sneak her pastries behind our backs?
I was building up her immune system! she blurted, chin lifted. I only gave her a little, so shed get used to it. One more bite and it wouldve passed, thanks to me! I know what Im doing I raised three kids!
I stared at her, this woman Id endured for years for Rachels sake, for the sake of keeping peace. Poisoning my child deliberately, believing herself wiser than doctors.
Three kids, I said quietly, watching her pale. And so? Every childs different. Daisy isnt your daughter, shes mine. And you wont be seeing her anymore.
What?! Patricia clutched the banister. You cant do that!
I can.
I turned and walked to the car as her shouting followed me. I didnt look back. Slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. In the rearview, I saw Patricia chase out to the gate, arms flailing. I pressed the accelerator.
At home, Rachel met us in the hallway. She saw my face, Daisys tear-stained cheeks she got it instantly.
What happened?
I explained, brief and drained my anger spent outside that house. Rachel listened, face hardening with each slow word. Then she pulled out her mobile.
Mum. Yes, he told me. How could you?!
I took Daisy to the bathroom washed away the pastry and the tears. Through the door I heard Rachels voice, sharp and unfamiliar, dressing down her mum as Id never heard before. Finally, clear and cold: “Until Daisys allergy is sorted, youre not seeing her.”
Two months passed…
Sunday lunch at Margarets had become tradition. Today, on the table, sat a cake: a strawberry sponge with cream. Daisy was eating it all by herself, smearing cream everywhere. Her cheeks: spotless.
Whod have thought Margaret mused. Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy.
The doctor said one in a thousand, Rachel buttered her bread. As soon as we totally cut it out and switched to olive oil, the rash disappeared in less than a fortnight.
I watched Daisy, unable to get enough. Rosy cheeks, bright eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child at last, finally able to eat normal food cakes, biscuits, anything made without sunflower oil. And suddenly, that list was enormous.
Things with Patricia were icy. She phoned, apologised, sobbed. Rachel kept it short. I didnt speak with her at all.
Daisy reached for more cake and Margaret nudged the plate closer.
Go on, darling. Eat up.
I leaned back, listening to rain on the window. The house was warm, the smell of baking everywhere. My daughter was well again. That was all that mattered.
