We sit around the old oak table in Aunty T’s dimly lit kitchen as I spill out all my feelings to her, as I cry, explain how I feel, she look on with a softness and caring in her eyes, not once a look of judgement or criticism crosses her face and her hand never leaving mine. She frequently uses her other hand to wipe away the tears flowing down my face, while Indie has continued to keep her arm around me.

I feel able to tell her exactly how I am feeling, everything that has happened and just how much pain I am feeling without the fear of being...