A Formative Memory

A Formative Memory (126w)

Mum and Dad were arguing again; it was a bad one this time. He liked to point in her face and say nasty things. He lied a lot. She didn’t deserve it; I knew that much.

Sitting at the window, I saw him, through the net curtains, storm down the drive, get into our faded gold Ford Sierra, and speed away, for the last time. I wondered why he didn’t love us.

I found Mum sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. She was crying dreadfully. She began to lightly fan her face with her hands, to fan away the tears.

“I don’t think he’s coming back this time,” Mum said.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” I said, and I held her hand. “I’ll look after you.”