I’d tried to forget every detail about him, even the good memories. Even the bright smile on his face as a child. All I could see was the hatred in his eyes the night he’d almost killed me.

I still woke from my sleep, my body rigid in shock and pain as I relived how I’d hit every stair on the way down. How he’d screamed at me, spittle hitting my face as he’d told me I was the worst mother God had ever placed on the planet and that Laura was lucky to be dead. ‘She probably did it to escape you,’ he’d screamed at me as I lay on the floor at the bottom of the steps, as he kicked my already bruised and twisted arm so that I heard it break, felt the jagged bone tear through my flesh.

I’d looked through swollen and bruised eyes to see it jut from my skin. I’d been too shocked to feel pain in that moment. But it had been for just a moment – and then the pain had come screaming in.

The stale smell of beer and vodka on his breath. Drunk again, as he seemed to be every day. I’d simply asked him to get up and freshen up. To think about doing some jobs around the farm. Keep busy. It would do him no good to wallow.

He’d reacted like a man possessed. It wasn’t even as if he was looking at me, more like he was looking right through me.

‘You never stop,’ he’d said. ‘Nothing is ever good enough,’ he’d said.

I’d walked away, into my room, and I heard him get up, move about. I’d been relieved. Thought that maybe despite his bitter words, he’d heeded something of what I’d said.

But when I’d started to make my way down the stairs, he was there, on the landing, dressed. His heavy work boots on.

‘Are you happy now? Is this enough now? Do you need to nag more?’

I should have walked away. I should have kept my mouth shut. I’d learned before that when he was drinking, I did well to keep my stupid mouth shut. But I couldn’t help it.

I’d turned to face him. Months of frustration and grief and worry stumbled from my lips.

‘Oh, grow up, Aaron.’

I’d felt the full weight of his boot, kicking, pushing me backwards. I couldn’t stop myself from falling. I’d tried to grab onto something, anything, as I fell, but when I did manage to grasp onto the carpet, I felt the same boot crush down on my hand. I’d pulled my hand away in pain, losing any purchase I had to stop me from falling, and I slid to the bottom of the stairs, the carpet fibres burning my face as they tore at my skin.