As my dad stood up from the sofa, he let out a long yawn and stretched his arms. ‘I’m going upstairs for a nap,’ he told my mum. It was 1971 and I was five. Sitting on the living room floor, quietly reading, I knew what was coming next. ‘I’ll take Susan with me,’ he said, his eyes fixed on me. As he dragged me by the hand, I was too terrified to protest. My father, Robert Henderson, had a quick temper and I knew better than to argue with him. Instead, I let him climb on top of me in bed, too scared to cry and tell him that
