The doctor pressed my stomach as I lay on the hospital bed, and asked if it hurt. I hesitated, then saw my mum’s face contort with fury behind his back. I remembered her hissed instructions before we’d entered the room, telling me to lie, her vice-like grip on my wrist.
There was no pain, but all I could do was nod. At the age of three, I knew if I didn’t do as Mum said, she’d turn her anger on me. To others, she appeared loving, but in private it was a different story.
My earliest memories are of endless hospital trips and being poked and prodded by doctors, as Mum told them about symptoms I didn’t actually have. I dreaded the moment