I wake up on the morning of my birthday in a pre-decided crappy mood. It started before I got into bed, and although I shouldn’t put so much emphasis on one shitty day a year, I can’t help it. It’s not just my birthday; it’s the day she let that bastard do what he did to me and changed my entire life. That fateful day aged eleven years old, my mother lost her right to call herself that, once and for all.

So I am in no mood to celebrate the anniversary of the death of my ...