My father’s face was wet with tears. “It’s time to say goodbye to Mummy,” he said.
I watched with my brothers, Paul, eight, and Chris, six, and sister Liz, two, as a sheet was placed over Mum's body.
“Bye, Mummy! See you when you get home!” I said.
I was only four, in 1963, and had no concept that my mother Jean had just died from breast cancer, aged 39.
Crippled with grief, my father left us kids to run riot.
A year later, two police vans turned up.
My father, Zoltan, 47, was taken away and we wound up in an orphanage in Manly, Brisbane, called Silky Oaks.
No-one explained to us our father had been hospitalised due to paranoid schizophrenia.
We just kept our heads down, hoping Dad…
