Missing

She looks on her bedside table. It’s not there. Her handbag, maybe? She dumps the contents out on the bed, rummaging around until she’s satisfied it’s not there either.

Again. That woman must’ve done it again.  She grabs the rail on the side of her bed and hoists herself up, ignoring the protest from her knees.

She shuffles over to the dresser and swipes all the bottles and potions off the top. They clink and spill as they hit the carpet. But it’s not there.  Nor in the dresser drawers, which she empties for good measure.

A terrible feeling builds inside of her. That woman had done it again. She gets the stick with the pincers she uses to grab stuff, and goes to the living room, using the implement to knock items off shelves and tables. She even manages to open the drawer in the coffee table and examine its contents without bending down.

This is not the first time that woman has stolen from her. In fact, it’s becoming a regular occurrence. A deliberate act designed to hurt her.

The woman will be home some. She’ll have to bring it up with her and there’ll be a scene. The woman always denies she’s involved, tries to lie her way out.

Air; she needs air. She opens the patio door and goes to sit on her favourite green armchair.

The woman will be here soon, and she’ll have to confront her. She can’t let it go; not this time. She’s not as stupid as they think she is. In fact, that’s the woman’s car now; her keys in the lock. Now there’s shouting. Why shouting?

The patio door opens, and the woman comes outside.

“Mum? Are you okay? What happened to the house?

Mum? How could that woman call her mum? As if she cares about her and hadn’t just stolen from her.

“What do you have your knickers in such a twist about?”

“I was scared. The house looks like it’s been ransacked and I couldn’t find you. I thought something had happened to you!”

“Stop the lies. You’re just trying to cover up the theft.”

The woman sighs. She always does that – it’s aggravating. “Theft?” “

“Yes! You know what you did.”

“I really don’t, Mum.”

“Stop calling me Mum you lipstick thief.”

“Lipstick thief?”

“You stole my pink lipstick I bought from David Jones in the city that day we went there with your father - and you know it.”

Another sigh. “Is that what’s going on? Is that why you trashed the house? I didn’t steal your lipstick. You threw it out last week, remember? You said the pink didn’t suit you anymore. I asked you if you were sure, but you said you were.”

“I did no such thing.”

That woman is a liar and a thief. What did she do to deserve her?