Chapter 1

The Slap

Once upon a time, our home gleamed with sunshine and laughter. It was a Wonderland where mornings bloomed with fragrances of freshly baked bread and the cheerful chatter of our children. Paintings with vivid colours adorned our walls, and our favourite music filled every corner with joy.

But every fairytale has its shadows lurking at the edges of perfection. It began when, in the surreal landscape of our morning routine, Paul, our youngest, was beset by a fever. His eyes were swollen from tears, his nose red from his sniffles. His small voice trembled as he cried out, ‘Daddy, it hurts!’

Tony, in his morning hustle, barked at the boy. ‘Paul, what’s your problem? Shut up!’ Instead of offering comfort, Tony further chastised him, ‘Be a man!’ It’s ironic, demanding maturity from a four-year-old. But Paul’s tears only intensified.

Tony’s hand struck Paul, not in a fleeting moment of temper but with a kind of intention that suggested this was to be our ‘new normal’. It wasn’t just a slap, it was a statement.

For a moment, time stood still. I was plunged into a freezing abyss of disbelief, paralysed, knowing that any protest from me would only pour fuel on this already raging fire. Paul, his cheek aflame, retreated to the sanctuary of his room, tears held back with an effort that broke my heart. Innocent as he was, Paul couldn’t fathom the complexities of adult emotions; he simply loved his father and, like me, laboured daily in his own little ways to please him. In his world, his dad was not a villain but a hero. And if the hero was upset, it must be his own fault.

As life resumed its rhythm, I stood in the kitchen, feigning normality, my gaze lost in the golden hues of buttered toast. Confronting or comforting seemed perilous; I was torn between my roles, one as a mother and one as a wife. How had our Wonderland turned so dark? Gone were the colourful paintings and joyful music, replaced by a cautious silence that had enveloped our home.

Bravery or resignation, I’m not sure which, led Paul out of his room, his face marked with evidence of the morning’s tragedy, dressed and ready for preschool. Forcing a cheerfulness I did not feel, I rallied the troops, ‘Come on! Everyone pile into the car!’

Suzy, always the observer, responded in a tone devoid of its usual sparkle, ‘Yes, Mother.’ Paul’s brave front, however, was the most heart-wrenching. He masked his pain with a smile, but his eyes betrayed him, holding back a dam of tears. Sending him to school, possibly to spread his flu, was a twisted necessity. Because at home, even the common cold had become an adversary, and acknowledging it would invite another tempest from Tony.

‘In a home where love should have been the compass, we found ourselves lost in a Wonderland where the rules changed with every ticking second.’

That evening was different; Tony expected the world to rotate as usual. He expected life to go on as if the clock’s hands hadn’t just been jarringly pushed backward. The atmosphere was dense; you could cut it with a knife. Glances were dangerous, a silent rebellion that could set off a domino effect, especially if Tony caught wind of it. The terror of his gaze had us all tethered, and I started to fear that the children, innocent souls, might now be so conditioned that they’d choose Tony’s warped version of reality.

The act wasn’t just Tony’s; it became our collective performance. Every time Tony cloaked himself in pretence, I had to dance along, trying desperately to maintain equilibrium. But this act had a cost, and I saw its toll on the children. Their laughter and smiles became rehearsed. It was as if their happiness had been replaced with artificial joy, orchestrated by their father.

My evening TAFE class had become my sanctuary – a technical school where I sought intellectual solace amongst life’s chaos. I was studying psychology and English. Head down, I entered the dingy classroom, nestled within the weathered walls of the TAFE’s historic building. The windows, adorned with broken Venetian blinds, filtered in streaks of sunlight that illuminated the scuffed wooden floors. I traced my finger along the etchings in my desk, my thoughts swirling, chaotic and never-ending. A looming realisation cast its shadow – I couldn’t trust Tony with the kids. From that point, I promised myself that the children would always be by my side. If he could betray us with me right there, the possibilities in my absence were too terrifying to imagine. The rest of the class passed by in a blur; as usual, I spoke to no one and no one spoke to me.

Heading back from TAFE, with my rusty Toyota Corolla hungrily consuming the last of its fuel, I found myself at a crossroads. All I yearned for was an escape from Tony’s maze, but the escape was riddled with its own challenges. I had no money of my own. My pockets were almost empty, echoing the hollowness I felt inside. And more worryingly, Tony’s mind games had infiltrated the kids, especially Paul. The mere thought of Paul resisting, torn between a manipulated love for his father and the reality I wanted him to see, was heart-wrenching.

As I weaved through the near-empty streets, rain drizzling on my windscreen, a tiny sliver of hope flickered within me. Maybe, just maybe, Tony would be remorseful. However, as the doors creaked open, there he was, nonchalantly reading the newspaper. Spread out over the worn couch, dressed in a white singlet that clung to his growing beer belly, he didn’t even look up as I shuffled past him. It was as if the storm had never happened, and we were all just characters in his twisted tale. As I brushed my teeth, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Bags swelled under my eyes, and my hair had become unkempt. The Sally in the mirror wasn’t one I recognised. I thought back to that Sally at the nightclub when Tony and I had first met – still nervous, but younger and filled with hope. Perhaps that was the problem. I just needed my spark back – to believe that Tony would change.

***

I dreamed about TAFE that night. In reality, even though I often tried to participate in class discussions and ask intelligent questions, teachers ignored me. I don’t know if it was because of my strong Arabic accent or something else, but I struggled against what felt like a curse of invisibility at the school, working ten times harder than other students just to be allowed to participate. Like at home, there seemed to be unwritten rules at TAFE, including one requiring immigrants to shut up, sit in the back row, and have as low expectations for themselves as teachers had for them. When I dreamed about school that night, my mind replayed this dynamic.

In the dream, a certain teacher – the very model of stoic, male authoritarianism – kept on ignoring my contributions during a discussion session. The dream was true enough to real life and was essentially just a rehashing of what happened at school frequently, but I dreamed of it because that teacher’s haughty, dismissive demeanour reflected that of my husband as he sat on the couch that night, utterly the king of his castle, dismissive of anyone else’s rights, feelings, or needs.

In the dream, that teacher represented both himself and my husband, and, perhaps, the entire culture in Australia that seemed to so effortlessly put me ‘in my place,’ ignore me, and dismiss me. In real life, at TAFE, I never gave up or acknowledged either my helplessness or my dismissal. Because I knew the rules there required teachers to be inclusive, I behaved always as if I expected the same respect as other students. I knew I wasn’t getting it, but I refused to accept that fact as an inevitable reality.

I wouldn’t allow myself to feel the helplessness that came with being ignored. I just pushed it down, telling myself a solution to the problem was right around the corner. But in the dream, the overwhelming feeling was one of utter helplessness. The dream’s access to my subconscious enabled me to feel that which I had been suppressing. The dream was terribly sad, paralysingly so, but my subconscious was doing me the favour of allowing me to feel what, in life, I couldn’t face.

Fraying Bonds

A few days later, I had hoped we’d be turning a new page when Tony made what seemed like an attempt to mend bridges with Paul. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. The warm summer breeze drifted through the open kitchen windows as I washed dishes. A sense of unease crept over me as Tony stomped into the room.

‘Fancy a swim, Paul?’ His voice broke the tense air.

I dropped the bowl I was holding into the soapy water, turning to see Paul’s eyes light up at his father’s unexpected friendliness. ‘Sure, Dad!’

Hastily, Tony began searching through Paul’s things. ‘Got your trunks? Let’s gather everything!’

I interjected, my voice weighed down with concern. ‘Tony, he’s not well.’

My husband’s laughter felt like a slap, mocking and dismissive. ‘Nonsense! He’s fine.’

Even as I saw the shadows under Paul’s eyes, the weariness that weighed on his young shoulders, Tony was hell-bent on this swimming escapade.

‘No,’ I said firmly, choosing my role as a mother over any impending marital conflict.

‘Why not? Paul loves swimming. Have you seen him on that diving board? He’s a natural!’

I dried my hands on a tea towel and took a deep breath, steeling myself. ‘He needs rest, Tony.’

Tony’s reply was sharp and mocking, a dagger aimed at my heart. ‘What? Like he’s some mama’s boy?’ His refusal to meet my eyes told me everything. This wasn’t about Paul. This was another twisted game, Paul as the pawn, and me as the intended target.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through the escalating tension. It was Tina. My dear, dear Tina, my anchor in many a storm. We’d been friends for a long time, having met not long after I’d moved to Melbourne. But right then, I was not ready to be drawn into another chapter of her whirlwind romances. ‘Tina, I’ll call you back,’ I managed to say.

One side of Tony’s lip curled into a lopsided grin. He eyed me like a predator sizing up its prey.

‘Go to your room,’ I whispered to Paul. He looked to his father before obeying. I braced myself for the whirlwind of insults hurtled my way. Each one was like a dagger to my heart; the man who had once looked upon me with such love now had only hatred in his eyes. I squeezed my eyes closed in an attempt to drown out the poison-laced words. Moments later, the front door slammed as Tony left me there, curled up and crying in the kitchen.

When he arrived home a few hours later from who-knew-where, the house was shrouded in thick tension yet again. We went to bed wordlessly. Though we lay in bed together, we couldn’t have felt further apart.

***

That night, I dreamed of Hillary, an elderly lady I looked after that was a friend of Tony’s and mine. She had difficulty walking, so I helped her with grocery shopping and sat with her over coffee, just to keep her company. A hoarder and a spiteful gossip, Hillary wasn’t pleasant or grateful, but she probably suffered from dementia, and someone had to help her. She showed little appreciation of my help and often belittled me but still asked me to come over quite often. When she summoned, I went. I told myself I did it out of respect for the aged, but a part of me wonders if I was just so used to bad treatment by this point that abusers sought me out; and I, them.

In the dream, I entered Hilary’s terrible-smelling house and found it tidier than usual.

She said, ‘I cleaned the place up, myself! You see? I don’t really need you at all!’

The dream was trying to tell me that I returned to my abuser, time after time, inviting bad treatment and derisive comments. Despite the dream’s wise message, however, I could not, upon waking, figure out how to break the vicious circle of Tony’s abuse and my compliance with it.

The Hug

Days after Tony’s violent outburst with our son Paul, he transformed into someone entirely different. One morning, he turned to me with eyes brimming with what felt like genuine emotion. ‘I love you, Sally,’ he whispered, enfolding me in an embrace. My brain screamed to run away, but my heart was overwhelmed by the vulnerability he was showing me. It was as if the past had collided with the present, presenting the Tony I had once vowed to spend my life with. While the irony wasn’t lost on me, that very man was the architect of my recent anguish; this moment, however fleeting, sparked a tiny ember of hope. I softened into his embrace. ‘I love you, too.’

By the time he left for work, I felt like I was walking on a cloud. Things were going to be different. That Tony I had known and loved so much was still in there. I clung to that thought as I readied myself for the day’s TAFE classes.

Previously, I could lose myself in night classes, but with the new resolve to never leave my children unguarded with Tony, mornings became my TAFE window. Sometimes, just to brace myself, I would down a shot of whiskey before confronting the cacophony of English chatter. It felt as if I was surrounded by a sea of people, yet isolated by an invisible force field, amplified by the barriers of language. While the school corridors buzzed with lively discussions and camaraderie, I felt lost, unable to fit in.

Bracing myself for the day’s English exam, I navigated the wood-lined corridors of the old Melbourne manor, the reverberation of footsteps accompanying me. Seated at the antique library table, my world shifted once again. The euphoria of the morning’s embrace evaporated, leaving me cold. Confronted with the paper, my inadequacy became glaringly evident. My mind, instead of focusing on the paper, spiralled down a hole of self-deprecation. How could I have fallen for Tony’s ruse? It was the same thing every time; he would have an outburst, berate me, scold our children. Then, a few days later, he would be a different person – loving, kind, warm. But every touch of happiness was shadowed by the dread of impending doom. My clammy hands betrayed my anxiety, causing me to continually wipe them against my trousers, attempting to comfort myself with deep breaths.

The rest of the day was a blur. In my next class, our teacher, who epitomised the notion of a lacklustre education, droned on, echoing words from the textbook. While my peers allowed their attention to wander, I was locked in a battle within, desperate to grasp the language and the knowledge it conveyed.

I approached my teacher after class, my heart buoyed by hope. ‘Would it be possible,’ I began, trying to form the words with great care, ‘to maybe go over some of this again? English isn’t my strongest suit, but I’m certain if you slow down a tad, I can follow better.’

The teacher looked at me, rubbing a hand across his stubbled chin. ‘Very well, Sally,’ he replied with reluctant acquiescence. ‘I’ll carve out a slot next week – thirty minutes after class. I’ll keep you posted.’

A smile stretched across my face as I thanked him and returned to my car. Before turning on the ignition, I sat for a moment, the heavy weight of my body pressing into the dark leather seats. The day had begun warmly enough, with a hug, but the horizon seemed gloomy now. I had little doubt Tony would, once again, chip away at any shred of self-worth that had survived the day.

Hoping to divert the course of my day, I decided to pay a visit to Franny. She was more of an acquaintance, really, but I harboured hopes of friendship. Our farm, primarily a horse ranch with a modest flock of chickens, supplied her with eggs. And yet, every interaction between her and Tony was a stark reminder of her flirtatious rapport with him. He was that way with every woman, but with Franny, it was different. When he complimented her, she’d laugh melodiously, her blonde hair dancing in the breeze, and volley right back. Did she not realise how it stabbed me each time?

When I arrived unexpectedly, she ushered me in, offering a cup of tea. I settled down, trying to savour this brief respite, but it soon became a game of emotional dodgeball.

‘You and Tony… everything alright?’ she quizzed, catching me off balance.

I stammered, ‘Well, you know relationships… it’s complicated.’

Without missing a beat, she fired another: ‘How’s it going with his mother?’

His mother could easily rival the Red Queen in her animosity towards me. But divulging this to Franny? That wasn’t going to happen. ‘Families, right? So unpredictable,’ I deflected.

Not to be deterred, she pressed on, ‘Thinking of expanding your family?’

Shrinking in her chair, I shot her a puzzled look, ‘We barely know each other. Why are you asking?’

Without waiting for a full reply, she leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with intrusive interest. ‘Do you two still… you know…?’

It was clear as day. This woman wasn’t just being nosy; she was gunning for my husband, flaunting it with audacity. For a fleeting moment, I contemplated telling her to have at it, but what would that achieve? Without another word, I grabbed my purse, rose with as much dignity as I could muster, and walked out.

***

In my dream, a nondescript man named Robbie said, ‘Yeah, look love, I know you mean well, but it might be time to pull back a bit on these visits to Hillary.’

I responded to Robbie, saying, ‘But she’s the one who always asks me to come over!’ to which he countered, ‘Are you a lesbian?’

I countered, ‘No, and in my country, we care about old people.’

Hillary often gossiped about her friend Robbie, whom I had never met. She said he was a shoplifter. I had been told Hillary gossiped about me, too, saying I wasn’t a good mother or housekeeper. I didn’t take it personally, as she was clearly a bit off. For instance, she was a rancher who lived on her pastureland, and Hillary left her doors wide open so the cows could wander inside her crowded, crumbling wreck of a house. They used to clip-clop into the kitchen and just stand there like they thought it was a stable. Nonetheless, I sometimes worried about whatever rumours Hillary was spreading about me, and I think I thought about this a couple of times during the previous day, but by no means were these thoughts occupying a lot of mental real estate. Still, my dream used Hillary as a symbol to represent my angst on the day of the hug.

Robbie’s question was the sort a smarmy guy would ask a woman to embarrass her, with its subtle suggestion that she wasn’t pretty or demure enough for his taste, essentially accusing her of being imposing, similar to the way my teacher had made me feel like I was imposing. But the question also suggested there was something inappropriate about my helping this old woman. Moreover, Robbie’s question insinuated I might be different from others, which brought to light my deep-seated anxiety about the difficulty of conforming to Australia’s very different culture.

With the character of Robbie, my dream bundled a lot of subconscious baggage into a single moment. In addition to questioning my ability to conform, his question was incredibly inappropriate, and it was a reflection of my displeasure at the personal questions asked of me by Franny.

Australian attitudes toward helping the elderly aren’t like in Lebanon, where it’s just a given that you’ll help any old person who needs it, even if they’re kind of unpleasant. In Australia, people often found my behaviour strange, and I never knew why, so this was yet another example of that. In the dream, Hillary represented how my values contrasted with those of Australians. She also represented gossip: a type of unfair criticism. As such, she was symbolic of the impossibility of fitting in and the unfairness of people, like my psychology teacher and Franny, both of whom didn’t want to help me no matter how hard I tried. The incidents with both of them resulted in insecurity and uncertainty and a feeling that I was all alone and misunderstood.

An Anniversary and a Wedding

I remember back when Tony and I first tied the knot. Our immigrant backgrounds brought us together (he hailed from an Italian family) and being the renegades of our respective clans, we always dared to march to the beat of our own drum. He was a true sweetheart, always considerate of my feelings. During our dinner table discussions, we’d chatter about everything under the sun.

The day of our wedding dawned with soft, golden light filtering through stained glass windows in the old church, casting colourful patterns on the stone floor.

Standing before the ornate doors, I smoothed my gown nervously. Hot tears sprang to my eyes when I saw Tony, so handsome in his tailored suit, awaiting me at the altar with a mixture of anticipation and adoration. The organ’s melody soared as I stepped down the aisle.

We exchanged vows we had written ourselves, promising to support each other through life’s joys and challenges. At the reception, his family spoke to me with strained politeness bordering on hostility.

As we ventured into parenthood, Tony’s mother, Adriana, perfected a habit – she’d compliment other women around me, subtly aiming her words to sting. ‘Janine is such an amazing woman,’ she’d coo at the dinner table, praising a family friend with a family of four. ‘Her meals are always impeccable and on time, despite the chaos. And look at her! So stylish and put together. It’s a shame more women can’t be like her.’ She’d repeat this charade, even praising the cousin’s wife for learning Italian. ‘She speaks so well!’ Adriana raved. ‘Such effort to bond with the family.’ It took a while, but I soon realised her comments were designed to make me feel inferior.

Tony, for his part, brushed it off as a figment of my imagination. But I saw it in his eyes, the same way he saw it in mine. He was trapped, with his family making sure he knew his place. His denial was merely a reflection of the treatment he received.

Family dinners were sacred to Tony. As the kids came along, I poured my heart and soul into making each evening a culinary spectacle. Roasts, veggies, homemade bread and the finest wine – that was my tableau. Even Tony’s surly mother couldn’t deny that I made a mean spaghetti sauce. But after a decade of marriage and three kids later, Tony’s appreciation dwindled. He’d push his food around the plate. He’d criticise the children openly. As I cleared the dishes, he’d slink off to make himself a sandwich. The wine, once shared, became his sole companion.

And with each glass he emptied, Tony descended into a world where he became unrecognisable, a distant shadow of the man I married.

On our fourth anniversary, it was a special occasion, the kind that held the promise of joy and warmth. Tony’s family was joining us for dinner, and I was determined to make it perfect. I spent the entire day crafting a feast, even baking homemade bread. But there was more than just the excitement of family gatherings on my mind; Tina, a friend whom I cherished, would be there. And Rita, another family member I considered a friend, was supposed to join us as well, but fate had other plans for her.

As the evening commenced, I eagerly presented the meal, expecting compliments and smiles. However, Tony surprised me with a remark that cut through the celebration like a sharp knife. He questioned my choice of serving bread with a roast, his words laden with ridicule. ‘Don’t you know anything? They don’t go together! Silly woman!’ The others at the table remained silent, complicit in his mockery. Tony had endured a lifetime of bullying from this family, but now, by setting me up as the target, he seemed to gain their approval. He was no longer the lowest rung on the totem pole; I had taken that place.

Once the family departed, the children squabbled over trivial matters and Tony, fuelled by the evening’s tensions, lashed out at Paul once more. His mood was consistently sour after encounters with his family. It was as if he tried desperately to win their approval, and his mistreatment of us, his wife and children, bolstered his self-perceived status. In those moments, I felt powerless to defend my kids or myself, so I retreated to my room, overcome with sadness. Rita, my trusted ally, hadn’t made it, and I longed for her support.

Not long after that fateful anniversary dinner, I set out for my usual morning classes at TAFE, only to turn back abruptly. A severe earache had gripped me. Upon returning home, I was met with Tony, dressed for a client meeting and about to leave for the office in the barn. Desperate, I pleaded, ‘Tony, please, I need a lift to Dr David’s clinic. I’m in a lot of pain!’

But Tony was preoccupied with his impending client meeting. ‘I’ve got to meet a client here in thirty minutes! I won’t be back in time!’

‘Just call him and explain that your wife is ill,’ I implored. ‘I’m sure he has a wife, too. He’ll understand. I need to see the doctor!’

Exasperated, Tony looked to the heavens as if seeking divine patience. ‘Why do you do this to me?’ he exclaimed. ‘This client has a lot of cash! I need him!’

Tears welled up in my eyes as I reiterated my need for medical attention. I certainly hadn’t brought this ear infection upon myself, as Tony seemed to imply. Reluctantly, he relented, his voice dripping with frustration. ‘Get in the bloody car, then! Go on! Move!’

I eventually obtained the ear drops I needed, but Tony’s cruelty toward me felt reminiscent of the time he had slapped our youngest son, Paul, for the ‘crime’ of having a cold. It was as though he viewed other people’s illnesses as a personal affront to himself. It left me pondering whether there was something deeply troubling in his nature, perhaps even a touch of sociopathy, and if so, where it had originated. I couldn’t help but wonder how the sweet man I had married had transformed into this beast, devoid of any nurturing instincts, the polar opposite of a husband and father.

***

That night, I dreamed of standing on a street corner, waiting for a bride to arrive in her wedding car. This was where the wedding party had been directed to meet, but I seemed to be the only guest. Finally, the bride arrived, driving up alone, in her white gown. The absence of a groom in the car didn’t seem to be an issue. In the next scene, Tony and I watched a movie in a cinema, and every couple in the theatre had to dance with each other in front of the screen.

The scene on the street corner represented the classic fear of throwing a party that nobody attends and reflected my sadness that my good friend Rita, upon whom I thought I could depend, hadn’t come to my anniversary dinner. Regarding the couples dancing in front of the screen: I was keenly aware that Tony’s recalcitrance when it came to helping me in my hour of need was a sign that this marriage – and whatever love we once had – was completely over, so I think watching the other couples dance was like watching a test of their love for one another. It was significant that Tony and I didn’t dance or participate in the ritual at all.

‘In the midst of our anniversary celebration, I never imagined that the sweet man I married would become a menacing beast, and our reality would become more twisted than any fairytale.’

The Eerie Silence

The sounds of discord echoed in my ears. ‘No! It’s mine. Give it to me!’ Suzy’s voice cut through the stillness, followed by an indignant, ‘Give it to me, Paul!’ There was a sharp crash, then the unsettling quiet after the fall, punctuated only by muffled sobs.

A beat later, Paul’s voice retaliated, his frustration evident. As their back-and-forths continued, I tried to console myself with the age-old adage: siblings bicker. But deep down, I knew their conflicts were more intense than mere spats over toys or territory. The weight of their frequent disputes pressed down on me, a constant reminder of my inability to mediate. In fact, my previous attempts to intervene seemed to amplify the issue. What concerned me more was the shadow of Tony’s erratic temperament looming over them. The thought that they might be emulating him was a terrifying spectre that haunted my every waking moment.

***

In my dream that night, a man stood on a high flight of steps, doing some work with a woman who held a baby. I was there, too. They were a happy family. The woman opened a drawer full of sewing patterns and said to me, ‘I’ll be gone for a while. You sort through these.’

Patterns are intensely symbolic. They’re templates or set ways of being, thinking, or behaving. I dreamed of them because I wanted access to a proscribed pattern, a new way of being that would enable me to help my children. There were so many patterns in the drawer that they didn’t directly offer me a solution to anything, but my job – if I were to become like the members of this happy family – was to sort through them, presumably until I found a useful one. The dream’s subtle suggestion was that answers were out there, and if I sifted through all the options, I’d come up with a solution. In this case, the dream referred to my children’s problem, but it could have meant any problem.

In the dream’s next image, I was at home with Tony, my mum, and one of Tony’s distant relatives from Perth named Leanne. She is a warm, wise woman whose very presence always made me feel strong and confident. We were talking about gardening, and I said, ‘You can plant parsley seeds, but you’ll be surprised when you see that you have parsley growing somewhere that you didn’t plant the seeds.’

Both a garden and the image of a severely pruned tree have been recurrent images in my dreams. In this case, the garden and our talk of flourishing parsley suggest that, like plants, people grow best when given space and freedom. Meanwhile, Leanne was someone in whose company I flourished, much like the parsley in my dream. Her presence, and that of the garden, was a sign of hope. Sometimes the only hope I had in life came through dreams. I don’t know why I’d suddenly have uplifting dreams like this, even in the darkest of times, but I did. Maybe it was my subconscious’ way of giving me just enough to get me through the next day.

Nightmares

The dim light from the kitchen caught Paul’s worried eyes as I stirred the aromatic spices of our beloved Lebanese dish. ‘Can I sleep with you tonight? The darkness terrifies me,’ he whispered, his voice tinged with a nervous edge.

Paul, my vibrant, happy boy, had been having these frequent nightmares. I had often wondered if they were linked to Tony’s unpredictable temperament. Kids can be spooked by myriad things – was it too far-fetched to believe that he might be fearing his own father? During this period, Tony was like the Cheshire Cat – one moment he was there, smiling, and the next, he was unseen, yet his menacing grin lingered. Our family felt ensnared in this journey we never volunteered for. Every time Paul screamed from his nightmares, the echoes roused Tony, amplifying his fury, which often landed on me.

Bending down to Paul’s height, I searched his eyes for answers. ‘Are you truly afraid of the darkness?’ His evasive gaze spoke volumes. There was an unsaid fear lurking behind those innocent eyes. ‘Alright,’ I sighed, ‘Tonight, you’ll sleep beside me.’ I wouldn’t have usually indulged him, but the impending dread of Tony’s outbursts made me rethink.

Dinner played out with an unexpected lightness. Tony, animatedly unfolding his napkin and hungrily serving himself, started, ‘Some folks are opposing this new subdivision in Kambrook. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. Traffic chaos, soaring crime rates, an utter violation of city code! I’m thinking of joining them. We have to stand against it.’

Internally disinterested but outwardly supportive, I chimed in, ‘Absolutely! We must guard our home turf!’ If this kept Tony occupied in the evenings, the lesser the tempests at home

Tony seemed buoyed by my response. ‘You always get it, Sally!’

While Tony revelled in our conversation, Paul’s anxious eyes sought mine, silently seeking assurance. His father’s sunny disposition now didn’t guarantee it would remain. With a comforting nod, I reaffirmed our sleep arrangement.

***

Spooning my little boy that night, I dreamed of our married friends Jamie and Julie who, in the dream, had just bought a beautiful, new, two-story house. Jamie frowned and said, ‘There’s a crack in the foundation.’

I looked down and sure enough, the concrete floor was cracked. Just as I noticed it, I sensed tension in the air and wondered if Julie disapproved of me talking to her husband for so long.

‘Louise is with us!’ Jamie then declared, and we walked into a bedroom where two babies slept, watched over by their caretaker, Louise. I kissed Louise goodbye just as the crack in the floor enlarged wider and wider until it split the house in two.

In truth, our friends Jamie and Julie were getting divorced. When I heard about this, it shocked me. I had always thought they were happy. Similarly, the house at first appeared beautiful until I saw the crack in the foundation. The fault that split the house represented my own very real fear of both leaving Tony and staying with him.

As I drifted off to sleep, I had been thinking about how hard life would be if I left Tony, how I’d support the kids, and so forth. I was dying to get out of this pressure cooker of a life, but all my money came from Tony. I couldn’t be sure the children would experience less stress living on their own with me and whatever meagre living I’d make on my own, hence the very foundation of our lives was split by Tony’s unpredictability. I was also split by being ‘of two minds’ about how to create a better future with my kids.

A Personal Best

Tony seemed more preoccupied with my potential departure than I was when I embarked on the Bessemer Cookware network marketing journey. As a Bessemer representative, my role was to host cookware parties, demonstrate the products and take orders. But as the pennies trickled in, Tony’s discontent grew. I wish I could claim that my pursuit of financial independence was a calculated move towards leaving him, but I wasn’t there yet. The weight of our mortgage, and our constant struggle with poverty, overshadowed his abusive tendencies.

Bessemer Cookware was my ticket to escape the mundane. Hosting the parties was another way to get out of the house, instead visiting friends’ houses to demonstrate the wonders of our baking equipment. With a rehearsed charm, I showcased the magic of our pans, making pizzas glide effortlessly onto plates. ‘Your cakes, cookies, tarts, they’ll all dance off these non-stick surfaces!’ I’d proclaim, met with nods and eager mouths. Cleaning was a breeze, and I’d triumphantly wipe the pan, declaring, ‘Voila!’ The applause was my cue that the show had worked its spell, and cookware was sold.

Initially, I trembled before the spotlight, but as time passed, confidence took root, and I embraced the parties. They became my monthly oasis, a reason to don sophistication – a black pencil skirt, a sharp suit jacket and high heels. I felt like a professional, not just a farmer’s wife. What started with friends grew into a loyal clientele who opened their homes for my presentations. At each party, I’d ask the ladies attending if they’d be interested in hosting a party themselves, offering a gift as an incentive. As my client list grew, so did my confidence. Then, one miraculous evening, I pocketed $600, a personal best. Returning home, elation was my companion, but Tony’s anger roared. He’d cooked his own dinner, and my grocery money hadn’t appeased him. His short-sightedness overshadowed my success. He yelled, spewed insults and accused me of betrayal. Instead of my usual retreat, I dared to stand my ground.

‘Tony, if you don’t want me to make money, you’re hindering our family’s progress.’

I inspected the tossed kitchen utensils, his tantrum still echoing. ‘Do you want to remain poor? Is this our fate forever?’

Part of me hoped that by finally challenging him, he’d snap out of the cruelty that had consumed him for so long. He’d awaken to his mistakes and blossom once again into the kind, loving man I remembered. But reality is often unkind and he remained unchanged, persisting in hurling insults my way.

In the journey of our marriage, with children and a farm, we dreamt of self-sufficiency. The years unveiled the harsh reality – the dream was elusive. But my faith remained, thinking these side gigs were temporary. That night, I wondered if Tony shared that ambition. Poverty and his abusive nature – these weren’t us, just temporary hurdles. It was a road to success with bumps. However, he saw our current state as permanent – a poor, unhappy family in a rural abyss, with no hope of escape. He was content; I, on the other side of the looking glass, was not.

***

That night, I dreamed of a stormy Lebanese sky. I called out, ‘Kids! It’s time to come inside!’ Then, someone in a car gave me a lift. We drove through the darkness and passed a little girl who had been left alone with a paper bag on her head. No one could see her face. Then, I found myself in the stairwell of a block of flats surrounded by many other people who moved with incredible slowness. I had an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

Whenever I dream of Lebanon, I know the dream is accessing a central part of myself. I left the country when I was eighteen but am still deeply Lebanese, rooted there. When I have need for solace, I return home in my dreams. The storm in the dream represented Tony’s fury and rage at me. After all, he was as unpredictable as the weather. The little girl with her face hidden symbolized me controlling and concealing my emotions. The crowd of people in the stairwell was yet another manifestation of my own general feelings of panic and dread that tend to come up when I’m in dense crowds.

Hope

Sometimes all you need is a singular bright spot – a beacon that keeps the darkness at bay. I searched tirelessly for that one soul who would find solace in my presence, just as I would in theirs. It was a quest filled with the peril of despair and frequent missteps, but the alternative was surrendering to the shadows of melancholy. I clung to that journey, however arduous it seemed. For in that relentless pursuit, I found my strength.

One afternoon, as the sun streamed through the kitchen windows and before Tony's arrival from his day, I nervously dialled a publisher’s number. I had poured my heart into a cookbook, every page infused with my deep connection to Mediterranean cuisine. My prowess in the kitchen and my unique Lebanese recipes made me feel invincible. This wasn't my first rodeo, of course – I’d previously ventured into the world of beauty products. But this book was my cherished brainchild. My aim was to sculpt a space in the world that was truly mine, untouched and unthreatened by anyone.

Unfortunately, the publisher’s response was like a cold splash of water. The indifferent voice on the other end, probably a young editor’s, rattled off about their backlog of manuscripts, effectively sidelining mine. It was disheartening. The pendulum of ambition often swung between exhilarating hope and crushing disappointment. The taste of rejection, bitter as it was, made me question if the journey was worth it. Yet, my spirit urged me on.

Oddly, anticipating negativity or condescension doesn’t lessen its sting. In a bid to shift my focus, I turned to my statistics textbook. But the numbers swirled meaninglessly. Jim, my precocious twelve-year-old, burst into the room, effortlessly guiding me through the problem with an uncanny confidence, reminding me, ‘It’s not that hard, Mum. Believe in yourself!’ His self-worth was a beacon in our tumultuous household, and I marvelled at its source.

And he was right. Through all the peaks and valleys, the hopes and heartbreaks, you must simply keep moving forward.

Chapter 1 Reflection

Symbols

Dreams have a way of weaving together our deepest emotions, fears and hopes. As I reflect on my journey through these pages, I’ve come to appreciate how dreams served as a mirror to my inner self.

You should now be recording your dreams in your journal each morning and noting the day’s events each night. This journal will become your guide to understanding your inner psyche.

Identifying symbols is a crucial first step. Symbols carry unique meanings. They can range from everyday objects to unique scenarios. Take a look through your dream journal. Are there any significant people or events present? What emotions do your dreams evoke?

Symbols often draw on your personal memories, emotions and experiences. Thus, what they mean will look different for everyone. For example, if you dream of a dog, think about what dogs mean to you personally – whether they evoke feelings of loyalty, protection or perhaps a specific memory involving a dog from your past.

Examples of common symbols:

Falling: A loss of control, fear of failing or insecurity.

Flying: Freedom, high ambition or a desire to rise above challenges.

Being Chased: Anxiety, avoidance of a problem or feeling threatened.

Teeth Falling Out: Fear of aging, loss or feeling powerless.

Naked in Public: Vulnerability, shame or fear of being exposed.

Water: Emotions, the subconscious or a need for refreshment and renewal.

Being Late: Stress, feeling unprepared or fear of missing opportunities.

Death: Change, transformation or the end of something in life.

Babies: New beginnings, innocence or potential growth.

Taking a Test: Anxiety about performance, fear of failure or self-evaluation.

Being Trapped: Feeling stuck, restricted or powerless.

Flying/Falling in Elevators: Control issues, emotional ups and downs.

Losing Something: Insecurity, fear of loss or feeling incomplete.

Spiders: Feeling trapped, a web of lies or a sense of creativity.

Houses: The self, different aspects of personality or life stages.

Money: Value, self-worth or concerns about finances.

Driving: Control over one’s life path, direction or choices.

Food: Nourishment, satisfaction or hunger for something in life.

Animals: Instincts, primal urges or aspects of one’s personality.

Hair: Vanity, strength or personal identity.

Mountains: Challenges, goals or obstacles to overcome.

Rain: Emotions, cleansing or sadness.

Sunshine: Happiness, positivity or clarity.

Darkness: Fear, uncertainty or the unknown.

Broken Objects: Loss, imperfection or unresolved issues.

Bridges: Transition, connection or overcoming obstacles.

Fire: Passion, anger or transformation.

Gardens: Growth, peace or fertility.

Shoes: Journey, steps in life or one’s approach to life.

Doors: Opportunities, choices or transitions.

Familiarise yourself with these symbols as a starting point for interpreting your dreams. Remember, while these interpretations offer general guidance, dreams are personal and symbols will be interpreted differently depending on the context of the dream and what’s happening in your reality. Interpreting the meaning is a combination of intuition, real life and common meanings.