It was day ninety-eight of refusing to take my nephew to the eye clinic for a new pair of glasses. The letter which had ordered me to do so was long gone, but so was my sanity. Over the last three months, my family had endured torture unknown to mankind, and it was all thanks to my nephew and that Dumb-door guy at the far-away school. The neighbours had started looking at us with distaste, which was very bad for my overall social status, but my final straw came with another letter. Like each letter before it, this one arrived on our doorstep in the early evening, but it contained only three words: “Remember my last.”
The very next day, I took my nephew to an optometrist local to Bentleigh. I forked out hundreds of dollars for the most highly qualified optometrists available in our area. When we arrived, they offered us tea and biscuits and led us to a plushy waiting room. It was a kind of service my nephew had never experienced before, and he was grinning from ear to ear, thinking I’d finally done something nice for him. Little did he know that I was doing all this to prevent him from ever finding out about his unsavoury heritage.
Apparently, something was going in my favour, as the appointment ended up not just being a glasses repair, but also an eye treatment and free eye test. Brighton has a few of these services around, but they’re rare. My nephew supposedly qualifies for one every year until he’s an adult. Thankfully, that’s one less thing for my husband and me to pay for. Either way, he can take himself to his own appointments after this. He might even do us all a favour by getting lost on the underground network and picked up by one of his own kind. That would be best-case scenario.