I could vaguely hear dad stomping out to meet me.

It’d be the same routine – he comes out, drags me in, shouts, lets the whole village hear and then he doesn’t talk to me for a week to come.

With mom – with mom, things are different. He’s not as tolerant, if you could call it that, with her.

To cut to the chase, it makes me furious.

I’ve tried to defend her more than once, and then I’ve sported bruises for a fortnight and longer.

What makes me really angry is the fact that she does nothing to prevent it. Absolutely nothing at all.

How can a woman let herself be abused like this? That’s the only term for our situation.

It’s hard to believe that my father used to work under the Force – ‘protect and serve’, and all.

By the time all these thoughts had passed through my mind, I had been gripped firmly and dragged inside.

“Let me go.”

At first, it was a warning.

“You think you’re getting of that easy?”

“I am so completely sick of this.”

“What did you say?

“I want to go to college, dad.”