One of my most poignant childhood memories is of my father sitting in his chair by the dining room fireplace staring into the glowing coals. Minute after minute, hour after hour, barely moving; his eyes riveted to flame and ash.
Sometimes he would be sitting there when my sister and I returned home from school eager to talk about our day. Mum would quickly shepherd us into the kitchen, explaining that Daddy wasn’t feeling well, so we mustn’t disturb him with noisy play. We couldn’t see any signs of illness, but we obeyed anyway, afraid not of our mother’s ire but of those shadowed blue eyes filled with pain and sadness.
After a week or so of eerie quiet and unnatural inactivity, Daddy would disappear from his place by the fire and from our lives. His absences often lasted for months, we
