Something happened when I was six which utterly changed my whole life: my sister was born.
Before she arrived, my own little “me” naturally seemed the centre of the my world. It seemed that Mummy, and Nanny, and our cramped flat had all been created for me alone. Of course, I didn’t think this in words, but that was the way I perceived the world. Mummy in particular was everything to me. I could not imagine a life without her in it. I also instinctively demanded her presence and love in the same way as air, food and sleep. And the love and care my mother gave me was enough for me, for I knew no other. However, although Mummy did love me, at the time I was born she was still too full of her personal drama with my father, with her own young life, so that I took second place in her heart. But my sister (perhaps “thanks” to her liability to illness, and fear for her life) at once took first place in Mummy’s heart. Mummy loved her passionately, literally could not get enough of her; and so, in my child’s soul, I realised what true mother love could be, and that this love was not for me; I had to be content with the left-overs. I was not ill-treated, I was not punished; I was just pushed into the background. I always felt unwanted: there was no place for me in Mummy’s arms, my little sister was always lying there. I was always hearing the words: “You’re a big girl now, give way, hand it over, move away, get off!» One way or another, I have had much grief in my life, as has everyone: losing those close to me, having to bury feelings dear to me; but I shall never forget those first lessons of grief, sadness and loneliness, which my seven-year-old soul endured.