He didn’t get any sweets because he’d mentioned the unmentionable, the ‘bitch’ who’d run off with Uncle Terry.

He’d felt the sharp end of Dad’s belt. Beneath the scarf and coat were welts seared into skin.

He’d been caught reading Mum’s letters. Dad pierced his cigarette butt into them. But at least it wasn’t flesh that burned this time.

He saw his future. As Dad hit harder, harder, the pain gave way to numbness; a shell formed, engulfed, wouldn’t crack until the boy was a middle-aged man, breaking down in a therapist’s office, never realising he was worthy of love.