1943. The year of my birth. To a very young mother. Raped by a stranger. I spent forty years believing that Tom Morran was my real father. When I found out the truth (by accident) I had a breakdown which took me by total surprise as I had always been an unemotional, logical man. Cold, is what my wife called me. A cold fish. No empathy, no sentiment or sympathy. Even when our youngest was miscarried after a car accident I didn't shed a tear.
Divorce was not something my wife contemplated after her short stay in hospital but I knew that deep down she wished I was gone.
Nursing me during depression when I was unable to leave the bed, helping me avoid soiling myself, I could tell from her pursed lips and grim expression that if it was not for my mother living with us, that my days would be numbered one way or other.
Mother and Father lived in the basement flat.
I didn't know what was worse, the way I felt or the fact that my wife might kill me one day.
I had seen that look in here eye the day she was handling rat poison.
1943.