Shattered (Part 1)

The fall of us

Part 1.

I was 12 when it happened…well, when it all began, I guess.

You go to sleep thinking it's just another ordinary night, only to discover when you wake that your life has been irreversibly changed.

I did wake, more startled from sleep really, by a police officer who tapped on my bedroom door. He stepped into my room, asked if I was alright and whether I had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

I was extremely shy and timid back then. The kind of shy that manifested as fear of nearly everything. A more confident person would have questioned him and asked why they shouldn't be okay. But I didn’t. I was too scared. I simply nodded and waited for him to exit the room.

I'm the baby in our family of four kids. My sister is four years older than me, while my brother is just two years older. Then there's my twin brother, who never lets me forget that he came out 10 minutes earlier, as if that gives him some kind of authority!

I love telling people that I'm a twin—people always get so excited. I kind of deliver it now anticipating that response: "Oh, you're a twin!" Even though I am very clear that I tell them I have a twin brother, the response, more times than not, is, "Oh, are you identical?" I'm way too polite to laugh out loud, but I do silently chuckle. I don't know about you, well, I'm pretty sure I do know that even you can think of a couple of major differences between the two sexes.

When we made our entrance into the world, my dad immediately nicknamed us "Beauty and the Beast." My twin was the trailblazer, but his journey wasn't easy. According to family lore, he spent a couple of days slowly making his way out, and the difficult delivery left his little face temporarily misshapen and bruised.

Meanwhile, I had it easy - just followed the path he'd already carved out and slipped into the world without much fuss. My face was perfectly round and unmarked, hence my dad's somewhat politically incorrect nickname for us. My poor brother had a rough start, but thankfully within days, the "Beast" part of our duo was looking just as cute as me. I personally love that the nickname for us remains today, my twin … I’m not so sure.

Anyway, I digress, back to the story.

That morning, everything changed. I got up and saw a few police officers in the family room. They had these sad looks that made my stomach drop. You know that ‘I feel sorry for you’ kind of look. I still remember walking into that room. My gut was in knots, and I felt sick. Even at that age, I knew something was wrong. I was scared, wondering why they were there and where Mum and Dad were.

This happened the morning after Valentine's Day, February 14th, 1980. While most people associate the day with romance and couples celebrating their love, that wasn't how it played out for my parents. It had been Mum's birthday, she was born on Valentine's Day, and they'd gone to a jazz club with some friends to celebrate. Mum told me later that the evening hadn't gone well. The drive home, she said, was filled with silence.

The tensions between them had escalated since Dad returned from England, where he'd gone to say goodbye to his father who was dying. 'Strained' doesn't come close to describing what was happening between them. From my perspective, their relationship had always seemed complicated, and I noticed how much happier Mum appeared whenever Dad was away.

Before Dad's return, Mum had thought about leaving him for good, but she ended up staying because it seemed easier than leaving. Breaking up a marriage wasn't simple back then, let's face it, it's no easier now. Money was the main reason she felt stuck. She just couldn't conceive how she would manage on her own. The thought of breaking away from his control both comforted her and terrified her. In the end it was just too hard to contemplate.

In a sense, though, Mum had already left, not physically, but emotionally. I never noticed this gradual withdrawal, probably because I can't remember them ever really enjoying each other's company, having meaningful conversations, or displaying even small gestures of affection. In retrospect, they never seemed to be friends, or even genuine partners. Arguments were frequent, often intensifying into loud confrontations. Dad would erupt in anger, and Mum would dissolve into tears. This became their predictable pattern.

Dad had a problem with anger, he was scary when he was mad. I don’t know why, but I somehow avoided his wrath – or maybe I didn't, and my brain just filed those memories away somewhere I can't reach them. I just don’t remember him picking on me - like he did my brothers. I witnessed them getting the ‘belt’ many times for what appeared to be the smallest misadventures.

It's funny how bitsy my childhood memories are now. Just fragments here and there. I’ve read that's common with trauma - your mind creates these little gaps where the difficult stuff used to be. Self-protection, I guess. The brain has its own way of keeping you safe, even from your own past.

I also kept my distance, flew under the radar, and tried to stay out of the way. As I said earlier, I was the shy one. Timid, always trying to please, that was me. So, that’s exactly what I did. I stayed quiet, followed the rules, and hardly ever complained.

My mum doesn't recall exactly what happened when they returned home after celebrating her birthday at the jazz club. The details leading up to her being pinned down on the bed by my dad are lost. What remains vivid in her memory is his attempt to strangle her. Despite struggling to breathe, she somehow found the strength to defend herself and escape.

I've only ever 'known' one version of this event, mum’s version. But 12 months ago, I decided to 'interview' my siblings about their own memories and recollections of what happened that night. It's something we have never talked about – not for decades. It wasn't until I told them I wanted to write about it that I had 'permission' to go there. My sister has such a different version of what happened. But she was always dad's favourite and so much closer to dad than the rest of us. Her story is that dad never intended to strangle mum. He only ever wanted to scare her, not kill her. Otherwise, she questions, how would she have escaped?

In my view, when someone is so frightened they believe their life is at risk, their motivations become irrelevant. Mum’s experience of fear is what truly matters, not whatever reasons dad used to justify his actions.

As I hinted earlier, mum managed to escape from his hold, ran out the front door and hid among the bushes until it was safe to get to the neighbours. I can't imagine what they must have thought, opening the front door to find Mum sobbing, a battered, bloodied and bruised mess, pleading with them to help and to call the police.

I look back on that night and wonder why I didn’t wake up, why none of us did.