Hammers, Hard Hands and Black Wavy Hair


One day I was eight and Dad didn’t come home.

Mum told us he was working late, but his bed wasn’t slept in. They had separate beds by that time, Mum and Dad.

Walking home from school that next day, Mum told us Dad had been beaten up.  He hadn’t come home because he was in hospital. Continue reading “Hammers, Hard Hands and Black Wavy Hair”