With the arrival of my brother, my world changed. I was no longer the spoilt little princess. I was a big sister. I was forever being mean, I guess. But I do hope that the day I cut his fingers off, it was an accident. Not something more sinister.

He was little, just toddling. We lived on a farm. Farms have gates. Big gates. We were down at the dairy, and to this day I can see the concrete, the big gate, and the slight rise the gate was on.

I shut the gate. For whatever reason, his fingers were in the hinge of the gate, and they were cut off when I shut the gate.  All four fingers on his left hand. At different levels. I guess there was screaming and shouting and blood. I don’t remember that. All I remember is the gate, the concrete, and the tiny hill.

I wonder if I told him to stand there. To hold the gate there. I don’t know. I will never know.