Children Never Tell
“This story will always begin in the same place.
I can tell it to you every day, I can change the sound of my voice but I can not make it start or end differently.
No one heard me, no one asked why I did the things I did, but I heard my daughter’s cries before they could hurt her.
Grown ups hear what they want, what makes their lives easier and Children Never Tell.”
A childhood of abuse creates a psychosis that sees a mother prepared to kill to save her child.
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When I was a child I remember not being able to read and got a copy of Heidi from the school library and sat every evening looking at the words and turning the pages. I am fifty six years old now and still pass most evenings following words on pages, some that I have written myself the rest from the authors I admire.
I still haven’t read Heidi.
I have two grown up children, both of whom I tortured reading bedtime stories, and made up tales. I surrounded them with book shelves and dust, and my version of parenting. One inherited my love of books and the other wouldn’t read one if his life depended upon it. Proving you can not force anyone into loving something they haven’t discovered the beauty of for themselves.
I have shared the same bedroom with the same man for the passed thirty years in a small thatched cottage in the west of Ireland. My father died when I was eight years old and everything about his death at the tragically young age of thirty one shaped my life from where I lived, grew up, my sense of humour and fears. I like things in stories and films that aren’t expected because life is for the most part unscripted.