My sister was crying. She was five years old, I was eight. There was a horrible noise coming from downstairs, shouting, banging. We crept to the top of the stairs (really it was just a glorified ladder) and I peered down. I couldn’t see all that well, because the fire had died down and the lamps weren’t lit. I saw my father; he’d got his walking stick in his hand, which was odd because why would he need it indoors? My mother was yelling at him; you’re stupid, you’re so stupid, I should have listened to my family, they said you were useless and you are. Then my father swung the stick at her. I think he meant to hit her head, but she moved and he caught her on the side of the left arm. Oddly, instead of backing away she went forward, toward him. He staggered and fell sideways, onto the little table with the spindly legs; it went crunch under his weight, and I thought; he’s broken it, he’s going to be in so much trouble. Then my sister screamed. My mother looked up at us, and I saw the knife in her hand.
