Within four years, she had become confined entirely to the bed, and there she lay for another nine years until her death. She ate with difficulty and could barely speak. From her throne, she silently issued commands to Dad. She’d only have to raise an eyebrow for him to rush and fulfil her order.

Keeping her alive became our only concern. When I say our, I mean Mum and Dad. It’s a cruel irony: people sacrifice themselves for a good cause and suffer for decades, while people without a care in the world go further and live free. Where’s the justice in that, I don’t know. Life really isn’t very fair at all.

Her room was in perennial gloom. The curtains were drawn, and the smell was terrible. Just like his room before he died. She lay motionless in a far corner, studying all arrivals suspiciously, as if fearing an attack. When she needed something, she called for Dad loudly, pointedly ignoring Mum. If he didn’t come immediately, she’d fly into a rage. Her door had to be left open so she could listen to everything that happened in the flat. I was afraid to look in. There was something demonic about that woman’s unlimited sway over Dad.

That was my childhood and youth. Few good memories. I remember my dreams better than I do the things that happened—dreams of a nebulous someone or something, a happy future, even if I didn’t understand then what that could even mean. And I remember Mum. Her large, light green eyes and her long, soft brown hair, which she slowly and silently combed in the morning. After that she’d see to my hair and weave it into braids. Often, she had bruises on her arms and neck. When he was on the bottle, Dad needed no excuse to beat her. I don’t know why she put up with it. I wouldn’t have put up with it, I’d have strangled him in his sleep. When they fought, I tried to protect her, but it turned out badly—I’d get some too. The rest of the time he paid us little heed.

I’m going to find it hard to continue here. There’ll be tears. When I turned nineteen, Dad ended up in rehab again. Mum gave me cash and I applied for university. It was two days before the entrance exams, they had stopped taking applications, but I talked the Dean into giving me an extension. I was so proud. In the middle of exams, my mother hanged herself in the bathroom from a heated towel rail. Light as she was, the chandelier hooks in the flat wouldn’t have taken her weight. The rail was low, so she had to lean forward to tauten Dad’s belt. That’s what they told me. Can you imagine the resolve you’d need to hang yourself on your knees? She tidied up and did the dishes before killing herself.

(Tears)

There you go. Didn’t I say I would cry? I’m sorry to sound like a patient here. I’m fine, war toughens you. Stop, don’t interrupt please.