My parents split when I was 13. The three preceding years were scarred with screaming matches, long drawn out silences and uncomfortable meal times until the point when my dad moved out and Wednesday became our day. Prior to that we moved four times and spent six months backpacking through South America.

Post dreaded ‘D’, I went to boarding school where I sufficiently rebelled, was duly gated for three semesters and henceforth grudgingly allowed to take the bus to school. End 99, both mother and daughter split the country faster than you can say Matric exemption – mom moved to the land of roll-on lawn, while I ventured West to the US of A.

In science one is taught that every action has an opposite and equal reaction. My reaction was to wipe anything pre-1994. Sure I remembered key events, playground wars, secret hiding places, details of homes we lived in even before I was two,  but no faces, no expressions and only very few family activities.

And now, as I page through the happy snap account of momentous occasions and family picnics, I’m filled with a longing to revert to age three and start from scratch – to be rid of the rage.

But we are who we are because of our experiences and although this trip to Europe has finally cemented for me that there is no point, I’m glad to have the memories back.