I wake with the taste of dew heavy on dampened grass and calls of kookaburra's singing amongst the trees.

A rising glow of orange covers the morning sky with promise of perfection and hope for a brand new day.

I'm home by necessity not by choice and negative thoughts instantly plague my mind.

Was home the best place for me to live?

A daily suffering of confusion and temper that changes as fast as lightening moving across a storm-stricken sky.

I now cherish the distance of silenced thoughts' as there will be no peace while I'm living here. No distance to hide emotions or a quietness to navigate the best path forward.

What is the purpose in prolonging a life? A life I must daily watch that dwindles and fades like a dying star that appears for a moment in time.

My belief in prolonging my parents' disease-ridden lives is now my daily torment as well as my solace, the solace to have the strength that I too one day, may stuffer the same fate and require similar care to survive.

Death does not come to those who chose it, unless taken by their own hands. Death with disease is forlorn and forgoing, a slow process of frustrated memory loss.

It releases small glimpses from the past. Flashes of memories from untold lives through somewhat jaded and distorted lenses.

Today I rise with the hope of a brand new day. A hope that I can survive the pain and torments that inevitably comes once my parents wake.

Carried on the wind is the breath of life and I stay silent with anticipation to hear their breathing.

The sound of shuffling slippers on floorboards assures me they're alive, awake and ready to experience another day of existence.

"Hey mum," I call out the let her know where I am. "I'm making breakfast in the kitchen. Would you like me to make you some as well?"

I pause, watch and wait to read the mood on how she's feeling. Will she revert to a child and be happy and contented or scream and shout with a viscous tongue from memories of childhood and her mistreated past?

"I can make my own breakfast," she snaps back with bitterness and spite from surviving another night.

"Ok mum. Your tablets are on the kitchen bench. You need to take them before you eat," I smile and greet her as she enters the kitchen.

"I'm not an idiot. I know exactly where they are and what to do. I'm an ex banker you know. I'm smarter than you," she yells and pushes me out of the way to pass.

So today she's frustrated and mad, and I back away to give her space, a monitored space with watching eyes and listening ears ensuring she takes her prescribed medication.

"Yes mum. You were a Banker and now you're the Managing Director of Domestic Affairs," I sit down at the kitchen table and wait a response.

A Managing Director of Domestic Affairs more commonly known as Housewife. A title we created to give her some self worth, importance, with now a life that she did not choose.

"That's a stupid thing to say. I know what I am," she growls back.

And today she lucid, no need for distraction or appeasing her mood.

"So what are you doing today?" she asks and as fast as a flutter from butterfly wings her mood has changed and she's happy again.

No matter what my response I know her reaction, I'm here to care for her and today I'll make plans to take her out, to give my Dad a well-deserved break.

"We had plans to go shopping today mum. You wanted to buy a new coat," I softly remind her and move back into the kitchen to make my porridge and coffee.

"Oh goodie. I want a camel coat to replace the one that was stolen," she claps her hands with child like excitement.

Mum never had a camel coat, another created memory that never happened in real life and I don't argue to maintain the peace.

"Morning Dad. We're going shopping for mums' new coat today. Did you want to come or have a day to read your books," I smile at dad and hand him a plate for porridge.

"Where's my pot," he snarls at me.

"What pot?"

"My porridge pot!"

"It's here dad and I've made porridge this morning for you."

"I'm not eating that. I make my own. Give me my pot."

"Ok dad."

His sharpness of tone and stern frown across his forehead is indicative of a sleepless night.

Early signs of mum illness were apparent if we knew what to look for.

Unfortunately, we did not.

Perfect folding of tissues once used returned to their box, neatly placed paperwork covering desks and tables, and the constant cravings of sugar like ice creams, chocolates and cakes. 

Personality traits strengthen, taste buds are numbed and daily abuse is a projected.

"So we're going to the shopping center in an hour dad if you'd like to come?" I repeat.

"No. Take your mother. I'm staying home," he snaps back.

"You'll have to give me my cheque book," mum gleams at dad from the kitchen sink. "I'll need money for shopping."

My first priority moving home was my mum's healthcare. What seemed like an endless array of Doctors, specialists, dieticians and pharmacists and my second priority, following their advice was the removal of her drivers' license and cheque book.

This has caused much confusion and anger although necessary to save the embarrassment of continually returning unwanted purchases.

Shopping makes her happy and mum is a great shopper until calls received from the bank announcing the cheques they've blocked, a hundred thousand dollar purchase of what looks like, a brand new car.

"I have money mum. It's my shout."

"I need my own money. He's taken the money, the cheque book and given it to his girlfriend."

This is news to me.

Vivid memories of my last year of High School swam like angry bees in my head. A sudden tightness surrounds my heart and I feel giddy from my shortness of breath.

Did dad have another affair?

"He got her pregnant you know. She wants money. My money," mum snarls and promptly leaves the kitchen.

Today, we will be reliving the past and not her happy past.

Today she will be vindictive and spiteful.

Today will be hard, hard for me not to take sides in her continually desecration of my father character.

(More to come here and thank you for reading so far)