What am I meant to do with him now? What sort of idea is thisputting my father in a care home? Absolutely not! Im not leaving my own house! With a clatter, my father hurled his mug at me, aiming for my head. I dodged with a movement so practised it barely registered.
But something has to give. This just cant go on any longer. One day, hell find a way to truly harm me, and Ill never see it coming. And as I file the paperwork to move Dad into the care home, all I feel inside is guilt. Overwhelming, suffocating guiltthough truthfully Im doing more for him now than he ever managed for me.
When the day came, he fought every step, yelling and swearing at all involved as he was bundled into the car. I watched from the window, eyes fixed on the silhouette of the retreating vehicle. Id stood in this same place once before, but then Id been only a child, with no sense of what sort of person I would become, or how my life would unfold.
Im an only child. My mothershe never dared have another. Her life with my father, Charles Winter, was already a waking nightmare. Mum had married him on account of fitting the part. Dad, already well into his forties, saw marriage as a stepping stone for his political aspirations. Love, legacyneither featured in his plans. He loved himself, and that was all. A model family enhanced his public image. So when he found my motherjust out of college, daughter of humble factory workersshe fit the role perfectly. No one invited her parents to the wedding, of course; they were too insignificant, in his eyes.
After marrying, Mum moved into his house. To teach her the ropes of high society, he hired someone to drill into her the rules of etiquette, the art of keeping quiet, and the trick of seeing nothing that shouldnt be seen.
Hows your day been? Dad would say as he flopped into his armchair each evening.
Oh, fine. I practised dinner etiquette, started some lessons in French. The most critical lesson she learned was never to give him a reason for displeasure.
And the house? Who saw to that?
I did, with Mrs. Smith, the cook. We planned the weeks meals, I did the shopping, and tidied up as well.
Fine, but see that you keep your hands clean and always look presentablenot like some country girl. If you behave, maybe Ill hire you a driver and a maid. But youve not earned that yet.
Calm days were in short supply. More often than not, Dad came home late, tired, and furious. The only one he could vent his spleen on was his wife: the servants could always quit or spread rumours, but Mum lacked even that escape. The first time he hit her, it was just a month into the marriage. Not as punishment, simply to reinforce who was in charge.
The beatings became more frequent. He was careful, thoughnever leaving marks, never striking where it might be noticed. Mum learned clever tricks, hiding bruises beneath long sleeves, always smiling for his friends and colleagues whod often come round.
One year in, Dads friends started nudging him about the lack of a baby. Charles, youve a lovely young wife. Why no children yet? Which of you is at fault? She should see a doctor; no point wasting time.
Hed reply dryly, Were not in any rushshes finishing her studies.
Studies? What for? All a woman needs is a husband, a home, children. Time she dropped university and went to the doctor. No children? Thats no proper marriage. You should set an example.
So began a new ordeal for Mumendless check-ups, tests, and treatments. For appearances sake, Dad even stopped hitting her; no use letting doctors see the bruises. Months later, after every test imaginable, the answer came: Mum was perfectly healthy. The problem, then, was Dads. A doctor cautiously suggested Charles get himself looked at.
Me? Are you mad? A couple of calls from me and youll find yourself tending sheep in some backwater.
Even if you do get me sacked, it wont fix your problem, said the doctor, accustomed to men like Dad.
The tests were run, and the verdict returned: Charless chances of being a father were vanishingly small. It was just luck, then, that after two more years my mother became pregnant. When I was bornApril Wintereveryone remarked how much I resembled him. Predictably, Dad felt nothing but cold indifference. My upbringing was left to Mum and a nanny. Some weeks, he never saw me at all.
As I grew, it only got worse. My presence irritated him, and the effort hed once made to hide his temper vanished. He first hit me at five, the day I threw a tantrum after hed returned from a stressful meeting. With one shove, he sent me tumbling across the room. I bit back my tears; he sprawled on the sofa and turned on the football. After that, I learned not to provoke him, but it was uselessonce he crossed that line, there was no going back.
Now he could insult, slap, or belittle me, guest or no guest. His need to perform as a doting family man had disappeared along with his ambition. Hed even mock me in front of visitors.
Oh, Charles, I hear your April is a talented violinist. Might we hear her play something?
Violinist? She still cant hold it the right way round! If you want to torture yourselves, be my guest. April! Come onfetch your fiddle and play for our guests, will you?
My face would burn. I was too frightened to refuse. That terror of performinghe instilled it in me, and it never left. After music school, I abandoned the violin altogether.
Looking back at those old books with their illustrations of smiling families, I wondered if anyones life resembled my own. Why was I cursed to belong to a father who despised everything and everyone?
My mother struggled to be warm. How could you love the child of a man you despised? She died when I was thirteena car accident, they said. I never learned what really happened. After that, I stopped letting anyone in.
When I finished school, it was my father who decided my next stepsnot me. He had other troubles by then; his career, once so promising, unravelled around him, and much of his wealth went to hush up the scandals. He retired quietly to the countryside. We barely spoke, and I never visited.
Living alone, he lost his outlet for anger; with no one left to bully, his mental health quickly declined. Neighbours started phoning me, alarmed by his bizarre behaviour. Left with no choice, I took him in.
Regaining an audience renewed his energy. Daily, hed rage and hurl curses, smashing dishes, scattering my things around the flat. I moved him into a locked room, trying to contain the chaos. Deterioration was inevitable, though, and soon he barely recognised me. His dementia fuelled even more unpredictable aggression, leaving me no option but to place him in a retirement home.
Theres never been anyone else in my life. Why would there be? Shy, damaged, never trusting anyone long enough to get close, I kept to myself. I made no friends at work, kept colleagues at arms length. Yet, the shame of needing to put my father in a care home was crushing.
There was no other wayletting him stay would have risked my life. The care home fees were high; most of my wages and the extra shifts I picked up paid for it. For days after he left, I felt as if part of myself had been amputated. I remembered a time long ago, when my mother and I had tried to leave, only for him to drag us home againnot long before she died.
Whenever I visited him, all I felt was guilta raw, aching pity that clung to me like a second skin. It was as if guilt was the only thing my parents had ever truly taught me.
On top of everything else, my own health began to falter.
