“When’s Mummy coming back?” your daughter asks, kicking idly at the table leg and pushing her cereal around the bowl with her spoon.
“What d’you mean?” You sit down across from her, bemused. “Your Mum’s here, sweetheart—she’s upstairs.” Before you even finish the sentence she’s shaking her head, pigtails swinging.
“Not that one. I mean the real Mummy. That one just looks like Mummy, but the smile’s all wrong. And the eyes,” she adds, chewing on the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I don’t like her.”
“Don’t be daft,” you tell her, making a mental note to bring it up with your wife in the evening. Perhaps she was right—a child psychologist might be worth considering after all. “Your Mum’s the same as she’s always been. Now, c’mon, finish your breakfast. We’ve got to get going in fifteen minutes.”
At the top of the stairs, just within earshot, the thing wearing your wife’s skin pull its lips back in a wide smile.
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