They say we’re a lovely family.
It’s dinner time.
As always, Mother shrieks: ‘Go wash those filthy, dirty, disgusting things immediately. How many more times! I will not tolerate dirt. Do you hear me?’
I hated Mother in those agonisingly repeated moments.
How dare she say to my little brother Michael’s hands: ‘dirty, disgusting …’
My heart seared, stabbed by the piercing knife of her viciousness.
Michael, every mealtime, carried to the washroom his fingers. Sweet, vulnerable little creatures, scrunched, quivering, hiding in his palms.
From across the immaculate dinner table I grabbed the knife and plunged it …