When the threads of your life converge.

Our neighbour was arrested for domestic abuse. They’d lived across the street for a year and had three wonderful children.

Over that year, we watched the kids play on the street every day. Mom was always outside keeping an eye on them. We’d smile as mom bundled them up, walked them to school and then home again. We remembered when our kids were little. The kids loved to play with our dogs.

We chatted with mom whenever our paths crossed. She was pleasant and kind. The kids were fun, thoughtful and engaging.

As mom shared the details of a decade of abuse, she thanked us for our friendship. She was grateful to know we were there even though we had no idea what was happening in her life. There were lots of hugs. And then they were gone.

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I was nine or ten when the lady with the clipboard came to call. We were four and sometimes five kids ranging in age from 7 to 15  living with a single mother.

We lived in a tiny semi-detached bungalow.  The picture below shows it along with Mum, me and my brother Jamie. It was our first communions. Mine was three years late.

Mum worked in the stockroom at a Kmart store, so we often supervised ourselves. Even when she was home. She was exhausted. And she was sad.

We were loud. We fought. Perhaps we seemed a little wild. A concerned neighbour called child welfare.

My 14-year-old brother Mark kicked into gear. We cleaned the house, and ourselves, from top to bottom. Mark had something baking in the oven. We put on our Sunday best and answered her questions. In my recollection, she came only once more. But memory is unreliable, and I was ten.

I hope what she saw, in spite of the chaos, is that we were loved, sheltered, fed and cared about each other. Mark made sure we had Easter and Christmas, shoes on our feet and clothes that were clean and mended.

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I learned this week that my 64-year-old sister had a heart attack last week. She received two stents. Except for a brief re-connection six years ago, when my mother died, I’ve not had a relationship with my sister in about 18 years. Some of my best and worst memories involve her. I’ve never stopped missing the sister she was in the best of times. I’ve never stopped loving her. And we made the right choice for both of us when we let our relationship fade away.

Karen took the brunt of my father’s abuse. At least from where I sat it certainly seemed that way. We were never able to navigate the huge discrepancy between how badly he treated her and how much better he treated me. Most of the time. That’s a massive over-simplification of our non-existent relationship – but it is the origin of our dysfunction.

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So many threads of my life converged this week. Personally, and professionally. My tears, triggered by the family across the street, were a mixture of joy and sadness. Joy that they are on the path to a new life even in the face of much uncertainty. There will be opportunity and family and new friends.

Sadness because we grieve what we have lost. Grieve the friendships that won’t flourish, the neighbors we were just beginning to know, the teacher who truly saw us, the puppy dogs we cuddled, the glimmering light from the streetlamp that signaled its time to go inside.

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I look at the poorly focused photograph of me, mum, my brothers and sister – and the puppy that lasted a very short while before running away – and I know where I came from. I know who I am. I know how much we’ve all overcome. I know that we can stand proudly in the knowledge that we’ve done better for our kids than our parents were able to do for us. They did their level best.

And I’m grateful. Every experience made us who we are, and though we won’t win any awards for – well anything – we are grounded in love. And that’s what matters most.