I don’t want you to think I had an unhappy , because I didn’t. I had the childhood I had, it was all I knew. I know now I had a tough childhood. In secondary school I had very low esteem, but I was independent. I knew how to fend for myself, I was confident and assertive. I know that sounds contradictory, my mother called me contrary on more than one occasion, but that was me. I could be the most confident person on stage, be absolutely word perfect, yet still feel I was, stupid, awkward and useless. What does sadden me is that I was too young to remember the good times, the ones documented in the photos I’ve seen. The children I played with, they are now just names, I have no recollection of sitting on the back step with Niels who was a year or so older than me, nor do I remember pushing Stijn in the baby swing, or the birthday parties my mother would throw for me. I now know that is where I know the twins from, Sven and Micha. We got together again in our teenage years through church, but apart from one very long bike ride I went on with Sven and of course my infamous 15th birthday party, we share no personal memories. We have the memories of activities in the church house, but we were all together as a group, though it would appear a dysfunctional group.

We were the choirs from two churches, mine was a small village church on the very outer edges of town, the guy across the road from where I lived was the choir master and when I’d outgrown Sunday school, my mother sent me to choir with this guy. The other church was higher, larger and in town. Its choir was male voice only, and this is what caused the problem that was to fester and ultimately kill the fragile relationship I had with my father, who even on his deathbed refused to speak to me. To all intents and purposes when I was in the room he played dead. He would not acknowledge my presence at all, yet if someone else came in and spoke, he would raise his hand, or open his eyes. In a very strange way this helped me rid myself of the guilt I had always felt for not loving my father.

Now, I need to tell you the story of how my parents met. It is a very romantic story. A story I did not know until the summer of 2021 after I challenged my mother as to why I hadn’t known my Godfather Harms. The father of Sven and Micha. I wanted him at my confirmation, I was told he had died. I was sad, but I accepted this until I was reunited with Micha in 2020. He told me his father died a few days after his twelve birthday. Five months before my confirmation, when I was eleven. I was so confused, so upset, my mother had no option then to tell me the truth, so here is that untold story. It began with three girl friends starting secondary school and striking up a friendship with their young teacher through out of school activities. One by one the girls fell in love and married. Meanwhile my father was singing in the choir in town, with a couple of good friends. Harm, who was to be my Godfather, was one of those friends. He was the first to marry. His bride being the young teacher friend of my mother’s. The second to marry was my mother’s best friend at school, she married Harms best friend. The next being another friend of my father’s to another friend of my mother’s. My mother met my father at an independent choir which none of their friends attended. Four girl friends married to four guys, all known to each other, all connected until that fateful summer, which would consign me to a life of unworthiness.

Everyone carried on being friends, one couple had a son, Harm had twin boys, Sven and Micha, my father had me, a girl. Everything carried on well for four years. As I’ve already mentioned, my mother threw me lavish birthday parties, attended by all the boys. That was until I was four and my father made possibly the worst decision of his life. That decision was to move out of town and leave the church, because I, as a girl, would never sing there. This created a huge split and my father and Harm never spoke again. That is why I never knew my Godfather, he wasn’t dead in the real sense, just dead to my parents.

I do not mind admitting when my mother owned up to his hidden secret, I was cross. I was cross I had been lied to, cross I had been denied knowing my Godfather, but more than that I was cross my parents felt the need to leave their beloved church just because I was a girl. I could not believe my father left his beloved church just because I was a girl and would never sing alongside my father. It turned out I never did sing alongside him, because as I joined the choir of the village church, as he left.

My mother actually said the words…”Of course your father wanted a son”. I’m not sure which shocked me the most…the fact my father never wanted me, or the fact my mother never knew how unhappy and sad this made me. Both before and after my father’s death. Knowing this did make a few things make sense. My mother worked on reception in a local hotel whilst I was growing up, meaning when my father returned from work, she went out to work. I ate my main meal of the day at lunch time. My father made my tea for me …a cold meal of bread and meat, or cheese which I remember eating alone in the lounge whilst watching TV. Thinking back now, I don’t ever remember eating tea at home at the table with grown ups. The best teas were when I went home from school to Stijn’s house. His mum always made us a cooked meal and sat and chatted with us at the table as we ate.

I soon began distancing myself from my family, by getting ready for bed very early. I had a few books that I liked to read, as I got older I would bring home books from the school library and from maybe 5 or 6 pm I would take myself off to bed and read. All was well whilst it was light and the lamp was turned on…..it was only when darkness prevailed did the ghosts come out to torment me