When I was six years old, my father was critically ill. Every morning, I'd put on my shiny red shoes, my best grey dress and my thick, white woolen tights. I'd lightly brush my curly, blond hair for one hundred strokes, enjoying the way my curls bounced delicately onto my shoulders. I'd smile at my carer who looked slightly pale, and I remember her lips trembling slight each time she smiled. I'd bounce off my seat and go and visit my father holding Joanne's hand down the long corridor.

On the 14th of June 1969, Joanne was hurrying me to my father's room as we were late, when she stopped me and spun me round to face her. Bending down to my level she whispered into my ear "Now, dear. Your father is quite ill today, you must do whatever he says. Don't be scared, he may look a little… different." I stared into her eyes, which looked as anxious as ever. "Do you promise me?" obediently, I simply nodded.

When I entered his room, he was sitting on his bed, his head between his legs, mumbling and rocking slowly. I turned my head to face Joanne, she didn't look at me, just sniffed and turned away.

I remember him singing a song, the song my mother always sung to me when I was an infant. "Oranges and Lemons, said the bells of Saint Clemons…" He was still rocking. It was only until I stepped forward a little and started to join in that he lifted his head. Clutching his legs still, he faced the wall opposite shaking his head as tears leaked from his eyes.

"She shouldn't be here today, Joanne." Not understanding why he didn't acknowledge that I was was in the room, I spoke out.

"Daddy?" He continued to stare at the wall, then bowed his head. "Why won't you look at me Daddy?" Silence. Moments passed before I attempted to speak to him again. "Please look at me, Daddy. I drew you a picture." Taking the folded up piece of paper from my coat pocket, I stretched my arm out offering it to him. He did not stir. Tears pricked the back of my eyes, had I done something wrong? "Daddy, why won't you look at me? Daddy! DADDY!" I began to sob. How could he ignore me like that? What did I do? Did he not want me anymore? Joanne softly squeezed my shoulders and started dragging me to the door, still crying I shouted at my father.

"You're the worst Daddy in the world! All you do is sit there, and you don't care for me! Why can't you be like the nice rich daddies all the little girls have in my school! Why can't you just be normal?" Then he started to whine, singing 'Oranges and Lemons' once more, rocking hard. "I hate you. I HATE YOU." Joanne picked me up in her arms, and took me out of the room.

I cried into her chest for at least two hours, swinging me back and forward in her arms. My hair began wet with tears, but I didn't care. It didn't matter anymore, for my father hated me and I hated him too. "It's okay, River, darling. It's okay." But it wasn't. 'I hate you' was the last thing I ever said to my father. Nothing is okay after that.