TRUE-LIFE
Perched on the edge of my parents’ bed, I watched as my mum Angela, then 34, picked up a suitcase and stuffed it with clothes.
‘Why are you crying?’ I asked, as tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Don’t worry, love,’ Mum said, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
It was 1997, and aged 11, I wanted to give her a cuddle, tell her it’d be OK.
Like she'd done for me whenever I cut my knee or fell out with school friends.
But Mum was a grown-up.
Grown-ups didn’t cry, did they?
With her bag packed, Mum made for the door.
Then she was gone.
‘When is Mum coming back?’ I asked my dad David, then 34.
‘She’s not,’ he said sternly.
Quietly retreating to my bedroom, I knew the conversation was over.
Truth was, I was terrified of Dad.
To the outside world, he was a pillar of the local community.
Ran a karate school, workedas a volunteer coastguard.
