My mother was mostly a stranger growing up. I don’t know exactly how the arrangement came about, but I was my father’s child. She kept her distance and took to my sibling instead. She worked weekends when I was younger so I saw her comparatively little, and by the time I was a teenager my father’s abuse had long since driven her into drink and depression. I had little idea what she liked, what her hobbies were or what her life was like before me.

I left in my late teens but moved back in with her in my early 20’s. They had divorced just before I left, and she hadn’t been coping with it very well. I hadn’t coped well with life either. Those were some hard years at first. Both traumatized and stranded. I’ve gotten to know her very well since then. Frankly, too much. She’s no saint, but she’s well intentioned and I’ve come to love her even if I didn’t as a child.

My father I always knew. He’s not exactly hard to understand, just another emotionally stunted and cowardly little man. We were only ever a tool for him - to win approval from his parents, and to provide one small space where he could inflict his control. I know every little thing he likes because those were the only things that were allowed to matter. He tried desperately to make me become like him. I am very glad I am not.