“The Tooth Fairy’s Having a Breakdown”

Date: 11/5/2025

The bottom row of Mat’s teeth have fallen clean out. Snap right out like a denture. He holds them up to the light, which glints off them mockingly — the gleam of years of Haribo abuse. “You’ll need to take me to the pharmacy, Mandy,” he lisps through half-gums. Not the dentist. The pharmacist. My eyes feel like sandbags. “What now?” “Mandy! My teeth have fallen out!” I’m in pyjamas, already surrendered to the night. The thought of driving him across town fills me with dread. There’s a random hippy slouched on our sofa, eyes glazed, a permanent fixture since God knows when. I ask if he’ll give Mat a lift. He nods, serene. “Sure thing.” But Mat refuses to be chauffeured by some random stoner, so I end up driving him — and the boys — through hammering rain, still in my pyjamas, wipers screaming across the windshield. The mall is chaos incarnate: fluorescent lights, screaming children, too many bodies in too little air. Somehow, we’ve forgotten about Mat’s teeth. The new quest: the last cheesy French stick. Maxi’s favourite. From somewhere deep in the din, I hear screaming. “Bloody hell,” I mutter. “That sounds just like Phoebe.” “It is,” Mat says, pointing. And there she is — Phoebe — arguing with thin air. Her finger jabs at the empty space, her face red with conviction. The crowd has gathered, enthralled by the theatre of the unhinged. Mortified, I tug Mat’s sleeve. “Let’s go before she sees us.” Then a mini poodle bounds toward us, ears flapping, tail ecstatic. Kylo. Laura’s dog. Unmistakable. Before he gives us up, we duck into a café and hide behind a large Indian man who looks thoroughly unimpressed. “I wish you were a little bit fatter,” I whisper. “”You’d make a better hiding spot.” He turns, gives me the look. The one that says this woman’s completely lost it. And maybe I have. I’m in pyjamas, hiding from my daughter who’s yelling at ghosts. It hits me: I wonder if crazy runs in the family? Right on cue, Uncle John materialises at our table. “Hi, family!” he chirps. He looks impossibly young — dark hair, full and curly. “No bald patches,” Mum says, appearing out of nowhere like an accomplice to delusion. She leans in close to inspect his head. “Do you see a bald patch?” She’s not helping our hiding mission. I squint. There’s one tiny bald spot glinting under the lights. “No,” I lie. “ “Not a single bald patch. Looking good, Uncle John.” And then they both dissolve into the crowd. Phoebe’s still at it — ranting, raving, fighting phantoms. For a moment, I swear she locks eyes with me. But she doesn’t. She goes back to her invisible battle. We never find the cheesy roll. Doesn’t matter. Mat’s teeth have miraculously grown back. He grins, triumphant, clutching a bag of Haribo. “For the road,” he says. Back home, there’s a suitcase half-packed on the bed, filled with random clothes and chaos. A letter sits on top —handwritten, addressed to me. It’s from Karl. Laura’s husband. He’s gushing about my dream entries, says I have real talent, says it would be criminal not to keep writing. My chest warms. “How thoughtful,” I whisper, smiling. Then Karl leaps out from behind the suitcase. “Psyche! … You’re shit!” The words slap harder than his grin. The pride that had bloomed seconds ago drains through my body, out through my eyes. I’m sobbing — ugly, heavy sobs. Karl reaches out, hand hovering, a mockery of comfort. I slap it away. “Fuck you,” I whisper. And that’s when it hits me. Maybe I’m no different from Phoebe shouting at nothing, or Mum pretending Uncle John’s hair is still thick and defiant. Maybe I’m the next in line for madness. Maybe I should give up. Put down the pen. Stop chasing dreams that wake me up crying. But no. Not yet. Over my sleeping body. I’ll keep writing — And one day, it’s going to be a bestseller.