My new foster parents were kind enough but they preferred to take in older children, like me. And many older children in the care system have been through some grim things in their lives and are, like me, fairly damaged. Sandra and Terry seemed like good people and did their best to create the family atmosphere I’d grown to love at Rhonda’s but when there was so much violence, hatred, and noise from some of my transient foster brothers and sisters, it was often quite frightening to be at home. It was only when one of the boys sexually assaulted me that I managed to get moved to a different foster home. Rhonda was still too ill to take me, though we kept in touch. I moved often, from place to place. Some of my placements were better than others, but I felt permanently dislocated and longed for a home of my own.

I followed Mama’s lead and started cutting myself. It was the only way I could make myself feel something. That, or letting men and boys I hardly knew touch me in ways they shouldn’t have been doing when I was still basically a child. I enjoyed the power I held over them, even if I felt dirty afterwards. I had weird dreams about hurting people and would wake up strangely excited. I never told my therapists about that. I wasn’t sure if it was normal, and I didn’t want to be put away like Mama sometimes had been.

Occasionally I felt angry at Mama for what she had done. Why had she abandoned me yet again? Did she give any thought at all to what might happen to me when she left me all alone in the world, aged just fifteen?

But most of the time I felt angry at my father’s brother. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Mama’s face when she told me about what he did – so full of hate. But at the same time, so broken and vulnerable. None of this was Mama’s fault – she couldn’t help the way she was. It was his fault – my dad’s brother – the one who was responsible for his death. He made her life turn out the way it did.