I love these words: ‘You strike a woman, you strike a rock!’ I wish it was true.

My uncle beats my auntie, my mom’s sister, sometimes, after he has had a bit to drink. I wish she was as hard as a rock, so that he would break his hand, instead of her nose, or her skin. But it is his fist that is hard, and my auntie tries to hide the bruising on her face. “He said he was sorry, and he bought me this lovely scarf, look,” she says to my mom. But my mom just shakes her head. We all know that sorry doesn’t mean he won’t do it again.

My mom is my rock. She is solid, always there, always the same. She has had a hard life – her parents died when she was little and she had to drop out of school to work, and support her little sister, my auntie. But still my mother doesn’t like to talk about sad things. She likes to laugh, and she works hard so that me and my brother can go to a good school, and have nice uniforms, and other clothes too. She even bought me a recorder, because she said I am musical.

‘You strike a woman, you strike a rock!’ I wish no-one would ever strike a woman. And that everyone could have a rock in their lives, like my mother. I am lucky to have her.