Mum frowns at my ‘Smash the Patriarchy’ hoodie, tells me to say hi to Granny, hands me yet another foraged-fruit crumble in a twee wicker basket. She’s the first veggie to win SuperChef and tonight’s her date with the guy who won MeisterSinger. I imagine my dad – whatever he looks like – seeing the pictures, letching over what he’s missing. As I wave from the gate, Mum’s dishing out treacle-drizzled traybake amongst the paparazzi, all cutie-pie smiles and icing-white teeth. 

When Mum explained my dad was a catalogue model, I cut out pictures to show Gabi and Katharina: Cardigan Dad, Crewneck Dad, Jimjam Dad. For ‘Bring Your Dad To School Day’, Uncle Ortwin offered to come with me, but I pretended I was cramping and stayed home watching Lassie, tickling the back of my throat with a hen-pheasant’s tailfeather to honk up Mum’s broth. 

Deep in the forest, the sawmill rasps, close-by and dangerous, buzz, buzz, buzz. I drop a trail of Mum’s episode-three bee-nuts through the trees, skirting prickly thickets, into a loam-soft glade where I sit and wait, daubing my breasts with blueberry crumble. The apprentice-boys’ hands are calloused and scratchy, their rock-muscled abs scented with pine. 

I despatch the wolf by myself, snicker-snack, dead and done, no point waiting for anyone, particularly a dad, or even a mum. As I tuck Granny into bed, I wonder if Mum’s humping MeisterSinger, whether he sings as he comes, whether the paparazzi will hear. I get a text from some saddo, claiming he’s my dad, saying he’ll stop by. I work late making wolf-burgers, bathe in the millpond at midnight, sharpen my blade for morning.

First published by Free Flash Fiction as the winner of FFF Competition Twenty-Two