If it was important to Amelia, it was important to me. Amelia bugged me daily asking if I’d finished and wanting to look at what I’d written. Howe...er, her constant pestering wasn’t curiosity. She was very serious about it. I refused to show her my draft, which only made her more curious, so I took to locking the draft in the desk drawer.But, on an early Thursday afternoon, as Amelia played the piano, I finished the lyrics to my satisfaction, and took them to her.“Here ya go,” I said, handing it. "Oh!" she retorted angrily. "So she can't stand living here but she'll drag me back where I was abused? Well, I feel unable to live there; I want to stay here with you!" Well, Siobhán," he temporised, "You'll have to discuss that with your mother, but I can't see her allowing that."She thought for a moment and her face clouded. "But you love her!"He nodded."But she doesn't love you?" she asked. "After all you've done for us?" She says she does. She says that's why we have to part. She thinks I. More

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