When I think of child-me, my heart breaks a little. I remember me, sitting with a story-book, in a little corner, watching the adults fight with each other. They weaponised their words and turned them into little pellets of hatred that they flung at each other. Sometimes, I caught a few and digested them silently. I thought they went away, but years later I can still taste them at the back of my mouth, deep in my head.