I had a good childhood. I grew up in a loving adoptive family, with parents who gave me stability, warmth and every opportunity they could. I was lucky. That part of my story matters, because it sits alongside another truth — one that took me years to understand.

Things changed when my brother reached his early teens. He had always been bright and talented, but something in him seemed to shift. I remember watching him win a swimming race by half a pool length, only to be disqualified. The anger that followed was frightening. He smashed up the changing rooms. I don't think he ever went back.

At home, the tension grew. He struggled at school, clashed with teachers, and the atmosphere in our house became unpredictable. My mum was the one who bore the brunt of it. She was sworn at, called horrible things, pushed to her emotional limits. My parents tried everything they knew, but they were navigating something far bigger than them — grief, trauma, loss, and the unanswered questions that can come with adoption. His birth mum had died two weeks after he was born. I don't think any of us understood how deeply that shaped him.

The police became regular visitors. Once, a riot squad came to our door. I remember lying in my bedroom as he broke his door off its hinges and charged out of the house. During the worst moments, windows were smashed ( the whole house) — not once, but several times. A television went through a window. My dad covered the gaps with plastic sheeting to keep the cold out. My mum kept going.

There came a point when he started hitting her. I can still picture her arms, covered in bruises. I was thirteen, frozen in fear, wishing I could do something but not knowing how. Children often freeze — it's a survival response — but even now, decades later, I sometimes feel guilty for not stepping in. He eventually spent time in borstal, and later in a young offenders' institution. Our home was quieter, but the emotional impact lingered.

This was over forty years ago, yet I still find myself wondering whether I'm "entitled" to say I was affected by domestic abuse. I wasn't the one being hit. I wasn't the one being shouted at. But I was there. I saw it. I heard it. I lived in the fear and the uncertainty. And the truth is, children who witness domestic abuse are victims in their own right. It shapes you, even when you don't realise it at the time.

My mum died in 2012. I often wonder what she would think about me sharing this now. She once told me she didn't like my brother — but she never stopped loving him. That was the complexity she carried: love and fear, hope and heartbreak, all at once. She did the best she could with what she had, and she never stopped trying.

I'm sharing this because there are families living through similar situations today — families who feel ashamed, confused, or alone. And there are children who don't yet have the words for what they're experiencing. If my story helps even one person recognise that what they're living through is real, or helps one mother feel less alone, then it's worth telling.

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This isn't a story about blame. It's a story about love, resilience, and the quiet strength of a woman who kept going, even when she didn't know how.

No one should have to carry experiences like this alone. If you're living with fear, uncertainty or harm in your home, you don't have to suffer in silence. Reaching out for support — even quietly, even just once — can be the first step toward safety and understanding.

National Domestic Violence Helpline 08 088 088 088