She snaps equations at them over breakfast and tests them on historical events during dinner, clicking her tongue when they fail.
They wrap their minds round polysyllabic words whilst peeling potatoes or washing plates, hoping the single letters their mouths produce will assemble themselves into what she has asked them to spell.
Hot-housed in a cold house, the elder girl, is pained by perfection. Silent rebellion corrupts the air as she buries minuscule pieces of faeces here and there.
The smell hints at her mother’s nostrils, and she sniffs at the plant pots on her way up the stairs.
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First published by 100 Word Story.
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