THE IMPOSTER
‘Mum! MUM!’ The two children screamed at her as she stole five minutes to creep into the bathroom and lock the door. Her kids had been arguing all morning and this was the one place she could demand privacy. Some mothers couldn’t even find peace in there. Recently she’d seen a photo on Facebook of a toddler’s fingers wriggling under the bathroom door, vying for its mother’s attention.
She’d laid down the law from day one with her kids. You don’t need to watch me poop. I don’t care how lonely you are. I don’t care if you want a Vegemite sandwich right this second. I don’t care if you’re desperate for me to see the exact scene of The Trolls movie that’s on at the moment – one I’ve seen fifteen times before. Right now, in here, it’s Mummy’s time.
She leaned against the toothpaste-smeared sink, signed into her secondary account on Facebook and flicked across to the group. Just being logged in under the fake persona made her breathe a sigh of relief. A gentle calm washed over her. She may have joined with an ulterior motive in mind, but now this was her alternate reality. Here she was someone else. Here she could shake off everything that defined her. Mother. Wife. Constant care-giver. Her surrounds melted away, the soggy bathmat underfoot, the plastic toys stacked on the edge of the bath and the streaked glass of the shower screen that beckoned to be wiped clean.
Did she feel any guilt about lying to these women?
Yes, of course she did. But it didn’t last.