Perth Voice Interactive

SUSAN MIDALIA is the author of three short story collections, all shortlisted for major Australian literary awards, two novels and a collection of micro-fiction. She also works as a freelance editor, a writing mentor and the judge of literary competitions, as well as regularly contributing to the Australian Book Review. Susan is the Director, Perth chapter, of the Australian Short Story Festival.

HER daughter asked her what time she’d been born, but Fran simply couldn’t remember. 

Why am I not surprised? Zoe said. I made a bet with my friends that you wouldn’t know.

How much will you win?

That’s not the point, Ma.

So why did you want to know the hour of your birth?

It tells you how to choose your friends, Zoe said. It’s kind of written in the stars. 

Her mother laughed. You know that’s a load of rubbish, she said.

Zoe shrugged.

You already have lovely friends, Zoe. And they’re lucky to have you as a friend. You’re kind and loyal and

Enough with the positive reinforcement, Ma.

A month later, her daughter asked her questions that she’d never asked before. 

How long did it take to give birth to me? she said. Was it painful? Did you have any drugs?

I didn’t feel a thing, Zoe. I had a caesarean, under a general anaesthetic.

You mean you were too lazy to push, Zoe said. 

Her mother didn’t flinch. It was an emergency, she said. I had dangerously high blood pressure. Pregnant women can die from it.

Oh, shit.

More importantly, you would have died as well, if the surgeon hadn’t cut you out.

More importantly? Zoe said. 

Fran’s husband asked if something was wrong with their daughter.

Every time I offer an opinion, he said, she snaps a different one back at me.

I think she’s stressed, Simon. This conference she’s organising for high school students. It means a lot to her.

Which explains the slammed doors, he said. 

And she’s sixteen, Fran said.

Her daughter asked her parents to come to the closing event of the conference. They were surprised, and silently pleased. Two students gave speeches about the issues they’d debated over the past three days: one spoke nervously on climate change activism, the other spoke passionately about the plight of refugees. Fran looked around and saw proud adult faces. She wondered what her own face looked like.

Then her daughter took her place at the podium. She was tall, with excellent posture (years of being told to pull back her shoulders), and she spoke with admirable thoughtfulness and ease, summing up the conference, thanking a whole raft of people with evident sincerity.

She paused.

Most importantly, she said, in a strong, steady voice, I want to thank my parents for all our conversations over many years. They taught me to care about people. They taught me to care about the planet. They taught me to think for myself.

Fran reached for her husband’s hand. She saw tears running down his face.

Aren’t we lucky? he said. That she’s alive.