My mother died in an unexpected accident when I was less than two weeks old. The loss destroyed my father, and to a large extent, his sanity. Without her, he had always been nothing, and now the only thing that kept him alive was the possibility she would be returned to him. This, however, did not make his existence in the meantime any easier. Refusing to pass me to his family for care, he stubbornly insisted upon caring for me himself. My physical needs, he fulfilled - I was fed and changed. But my emotional needs were forgotten and neglected.

All my early memories consist of lying in a bare cradle in a dark, bare room, alone and apparently unloved, crying into the night...but no one ever came. If I climbed out of the cradle and tried to join my father in bed, I would be quietly returned to my own room. Cuddles...I do not remember cuddles. He never played games with me - when he was alone with me during the day I would be returned to my cot, to stare at the ceiling and wonder what I did wrong.

My only love and friendship came from my older cousin Indilaurië. She did her best, but she could not be with me every minute of the day, though I suspect she would have tried had she been a few years older.

Eventually, my mother was granted life again. But by then, I had forgotten her face, and what it meant to be loved by one's parents. To me, life was about being alone.

Loneliness is ever my greatest fear, and my eternal companion.