Heal The Abuse - Recover Your Life by Jason Goodwin (great books for teens .txt) 📕

and it would have broken her if she knew. She was in a much better place now. I felt that Malcolm was weighing heavier on my mind lately, don’t get me wrong, he was always there in the background however much I tried to ignore him, eating away at my personality. He had changed me from the person I once was and thought one day I may become.

I was deep in thought, thinking about other victims of abuse and why their harrowing stories would come out years later, usually when the abuser in question was dead. A couple of celebrities sprung to mind. Only people who have been through it would understand. It’s not that you can just come out with ‘hey, guess what I was abused’, although it would have been easier if you could. He was the reason I had no confidence and why I never had the courage to tell Spence how I felt as he made me feel not good enough. I think the reason I had never settled down before was because the men I was attracted to were always the wrong ones. All they would want to do was change me or control me by telling me what to wear, or not to wear make-up because I was much prettier without it. That was a lie if ever I heard one. Who looks better without make up? It would always be lovely in the start. They would treat me well, pay me compliments, but then a few months down the line they would change, but did this happen to every man in a relationship? Would this eventually happen with Edward and me?

There were so many times before when I wanted to tell my mum, but my head stopped me from doing so.

When she eventually opened the front door, I immediately stepped back from the outstretched arms coming in for a hug. She was a huggy person. I followed her in and sat down in the front room looking at photos of me and my siblings as children. Me all smart in my suits.

Mum put the kettle on and shouted from the kitchen, “How many sugars?”

“‘None, Mum.” I hadn’t had sugar in my tea for about fifteen years but still my mum asked me every time and still managed to put a sugar in there, even though I would say I didn’t have any.

Handing me the tea, Mum sat opposite me. She had been decorating again, looked like Moroccan style this time, from the red feature wall, fringed patterned throws and cushions. My mum had named me India as she had always wanted to go there. She would have trinkets, sandalwood incense burning and wear bangles, and have Indian elephants dotted around the place. It looked like a shrine to Ganesh by the time I got older, but then she would get bored and decide on somewhere else she wanted to go. China was the theme when my sister was born. I am glad I wasn’t born now as I could have been called Morocco.

“Biscuit? I’ve got them ones you like, the nobby ones?” She got out of her seat again.

“Please, Mum, just sit down. I need to talk to you.”

My mum then got up again and grabbed the biscuits from the kitchen cupboard.

“Please just sit down, Mum. I don’t want a biscuit. I just want you to listen.” I wouldn’t have been able to stomach it usually but the sugary tea was surprisingly good. They do say it’s good for shock a sugar in your tea.

Mum was about to start talking again when I put my hand up to say stop.

I had to interrupt her otherwise I would have been there all night whilst she moaned about work or other members of the family.

“Listen! It’s about Malcolm.”

Mum looked shocked and went to the sink fiddling with the taps to avoid looking at me.

“You know, the guy who moved into that house on Blackburn Road after he renovated it. I used to go round there. He used to come round here for coffee.”

“I know who he is, India.”

The colour started draining from her face.

“Mum, you okay?”

“Yes, love, just give me a minute,” she replied, running to the toilet.

When the hurling stopped, she reappeared.

She had been wanting to tell me for so long the truth, why she divorced and why I was treated differently to my siblings.

She looked up into my eyes, mascara running down her face placed her hand on mine and said, “You have figured it out, haven’t you, love?”

Now I was confused.

“There was never going to be a right time to tell you this, India, but now is as good as time as any. Malcolm was your father.”

1983

My mum had met Malcolm in summer 1983. She was temping in an office at the time for a building firm in West London where we used to live up until I was one. It was there she had met him, all dirty from a day’s work labouring and had popped in the office to see what other work he had on that week as was passing in his van. He was a right Delboy, had the gift of the gab and was also very charming and attractive, despite wearing dusty clothes and having a face that needed a good wash. His curly hair which was dark brown looked whiter with the amount of paint in it and he had beautiful almond shaped brown eyes. He left her with a smile on her face and she hoped he would call in again as he made her day when he would come in. His visits to the office became more regular and she wondered if the reason was her as he could have got the information he needed over the phone. But he would always say it was quicker to