I spent my childhood piecing together what Dad did that day
Olivia Shelby, 21, Cheshire
Snuggling down on some cushions, I watched Finding Nemo on the telly. It was November
2005, my 3rd birthday, and my mum Lisa and dad Bradley had thrown me a family party.
Now everyone had gone home, and I drifted to sleep. And that’s the last thing
I remember about that day.
I then went to live with my maternal nan Linda, then 56.
‘Mummy got hurt, she’s gone away,’ Nan told me.
We lived in Canada, and I’d visit Dad at his family’s farm, where he’d take me horse riding.
Then, a few years later, Nan told me I wouldn’t be seeing Dad any more.
‘Not for a while,’ she said. I stopped seeing my half-brother Reece too, Dad’s son from a past relationship. I didn’t question it.
Enjoyed days playing with my mum’s sister Michelle, then 21, who helped Nan look after me.
Nan was from the UK, and when I was 7 we moved to Cheshire for a fresh start.
By now, I’d somehow found out that Mum hadn’t just gone away.
And there was a reason I couldn’t see Dad either.
Mum had been murdered, and Dad was her killer.
I assumed Nan told me, but my brain blocked out the memory.
It made me feel like an outsider, especially when my new classmates asked me about my parents.
‘I don’t have any,’ I’d say, stalking off before they could ask any questions.
Over the years, I told friends the little that I knew.
Though we were close, Nan found it hard to talk about.
She took me on fun trips, loved showing me new places, and I’d chat to Aunt Michelle on the phone.
They’d tell me stories of my mum’s love of horses. ‘Her first pony was called Pickle,’ Aunt Michelle said.
I loved horses too, and wondered if I’d got that from her.
I’d got her fiery streak, apparently.
‘That was just like your mum,’ my aunt would tease.
My birthday was always hard – Nan would light a candle, and I’d go to a local beauty spot where you could see the mountains of north Wales and release a balloon in Mum’s memory.
Nan did her best, but I struggled without my mum in my life.
Knowing Dad took her from me made that hurt stronger. I found it difficult to make friends or visit them. Watching them with their parents, jealousy would twist in my gut and tug on my heart.
Then one afternoon, when I was around 13, I was in an IT lesson when my classmates started googling each other’s houses.
Without much thought, I typed Mum’s name into the search bar.
Lisa Cubin.
I recoiled as newspaper headlines popped up.
As my classmates zoomed in on their gardens, I read ho
