Deeper memories.

My mum never left the kitchen window looking over our road and play area, even when I was in the house standing next to her, she was looking for me.
She would read to me while I sat on her lap and she'd keep stopping and she was crying like her heart was breaking. I would cry too and keep asking her not to cry. I was sorry, I knew it was my fault. I was about 5 now or close to 5, the police had long since left our house and the doctor's examinations were over. I was still scared of toilets and the pain of just urinating. My mum used to try to make it a game, racing me to see who could get there first, we'd be laughing. Then I'd reach the door, stop and refuse to go. A switch was pressed and laughter was gone.

Never was anything mentioned from the day the police left the house, not his name, not what I had done. My mum took a plastic bag, what I now know was an evidence bag, it contained brand new clothes that I had worn just once, the whole outfit. A skirt, a top, socks, knickers and shoes to fit a 4 year old, I'd loved them when they were given to me. My mum took them into the garden and burnt them. I thought it was punishment even though no anger at me was involved. God, I love my mum, I can't stop her pain and it kills me.

Today, 28 years on, I can't stop her pain and it still kills me.