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Before I turned six my third sister was born.
Dad said five women were enough. The harem was complete. Estelle was
beautiful, everyone said so. Her name meant 'star'. But I was still
cleverer. That Christmas I drew an angel with a harp and said, Look,
Mum, I drew a 'hark', knowing the correct word, hoping she'd laugh,
think me cute, wishing I'd overhear her tell this to my grandmother
on the phone later. I tried to make droplets of water from the tap
hover on my cheeks, like the crying poster girl. I wished an artist
would draw me looking sorrowful. I practised turning my eyes down in
the mirror above the mosaic tiles. My mother let me touch Estelle's
soft fontanel, explaining that if I conked her on the head by
accident, she would be brain damaged. Instead I bit her finger when
nobody was looking. When my mother came through and found me
comforting the new baby, she said I was a good girl, her little
helper.
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