When I introduced the goldfish to Kelly-Anne
she acted as though I’d adopted a baby.
Jesus Christ, Allie, are you crazy?
I need a bowl, I told her.
I was wearing face paint like a zebra.
I’d spent the day castle-bouncing
at my last summer fete before secondary school.
Kelly-Anne scattered chicken nuggets
on to a baking tray and
lobbed the lot into the oven.
A bowl and a new brain.
Have you even met your father?
She rummaged
under the sink
anyway
and found a dusty round vase.
Hide it, she warned.
And I know nothing about this.
Her name is Iris.
I kissed the side of Kelly-Anne’s head.
She smelt of hairspray.
I was so glad she was my almost-mum.
Iris survived in our house
much longer than I expected.
Years.
We all did, I suppose.