I am six when my mother falls. My newborn sister is crying, and in my mother’s haste to reach her the rug slips from under her feet. Frightened by my mother’s cries of pain, I run back to the passage. I edge forwards and see her move cautiously on the rug. It is egg-shaped with swirls of yellow and brown and has a fringe like a horse’s. My sister stops crying. My mother, on all fours, inches herself upwards. Between my fingers I rub the worn hem of my dress. This is the memory of my sister’s arrival. Not the long, drawn-out labour or the concern on my father’s face when he returns from the hospital. Or the cabbage boiled in milk that he makes us for dinner or, later, the visits to the specialists in the big city. These memories come with hindsight.

I’m 12 when my sister lies on the floor of the supermarket having a tantrum. She’s six, not two, the age when most children have tantrums. Her dress has risen above her tummy, showing her white cotton knickers and her taut bellybutton. She’s kicking her legs up and down and up and down and her face is fire-engine red, her mouth a wooden puppet’s. Transfixed by her drawn out screaming, people stop to stare. I back away behind a row of canned tomatoes, leaving my mother to deal with it.