Weighed down by shopping bags, I trudged through the front door. “I’m home,” I shouted. It was summer 1991, and I was just 11, preparing to cook dinner for my mum, stepdad, and three brothers.
Peering into Mum’s bedroom, she was in bed, as she usually was when I got home from school.
She struggled with mental health issues, so I did the cooking, cleaning, and washing.
In June 1994, aged 13, I was taken into care. At first it was a relief. Suddenly, I had clean clothes and hot meals,
I didn’t have to muddle through myself.
My foster family were kind. I missed Mum, but now it was my turn to be looked after, my turn to be a child.
I had two happy years there. Then, just…
