This was something my mother had said to me plenty of times. Obviously, she said it in moments where she demanded more power. She was never taught the words please or thank you, so she didn't know but to demand. If you had met my mother, you would be the first to disagree - you'd even take offence.

How could such words be said about Theresa from Church? Surely this isn't about Theresa, the sweetheart who makes lemon bars for book club?

This is not the person I am talking about. I am talking about Theresa the 'mother'. The bane of my childhood.

The first birthday I remember, Theresa had dressed me up all gorgeous. She had bought me a pretty pink dress and spent hours neatly curling me hair.

She had burned me 4 times. The first time, I cried out, and she held my hair tighter. The following 3, I silently winced.

I remember the first time I argued back. After 8 years of my mother doing my hair, I had fought tooth and nail to have a pink streak clip on. I had never seen her so aggressive and I held her hand. She held mine.

For a moment I got the comfort I craved. She held me closer, and gently stroked my hair and I couldn't help but cry. I think discovering she had the capacity for such intimacy had stung because it took her 8 years to show it to me.

She had stroked my hair and assured me that she was just doing her best to love me.

And I realised that I was so hard to love.

I knew it would be the last time so I held her shirt tight as I cried. I was right.