The Land of make believe

“And he said.. ...movies will make life seem like a fairytale.”

 Anthony T. Hincks

Childhood and Isolation

I grew up as the youngest in an adopted family with older siblings who often seemed worlds apart. By the time I reached primary school, Alby had passed away, Felix was juggling a full-time job with night school, and my sister had left home. She was married with a child and another on the way by the mid-70s. My niece and nephew, just five and nine years younger than me, felt more like siblings. When my sister moved her family to Queensland to escape Mum’s oppressive hold, I understood her need to break free, given her role as the family scapegoat. Left with a void of companionship, I turned to books, television, and the music of my era for solace.

Books became my sanctuary, transporting me to worlds of adventure and wonder. Television offered pure escapism, portraying idealized families that seemed a stark contrast to my reality. My first "boom box," a Christmas gift in 1975, opened the door to the music Mum had almost entirely banned from our home. For a while, these small joys became my lifeline.

To gain Mum’s attention, I once fabricated an imaginary friend, but her indifference remained unshaken, her focus always on her immediate concerns. This longing for her approval echoed into my adult life. None of us could ever truly please Mum, and two of my siblings died trying.

A Fractured Family

When my sister left, after briefly living in the granny flat to save money, we lost touch. Mum often forced her to care for me, a dynamic my sister resented. It wasn’t until years later that we understood each other’s pain. Back then, our age gap and Mum’s manipulations fostered a divide. Mum thrived on creating conflict, pitting us against each other as part of her unspoken strategy of control.

Despite their strained relationship, Mum maintained a foothold in my sister’s life. She was determined not to lose her influence, even if it meant meddling in my sister’s new home. I watched my Dad proudly design and start to construct my sisters home in Queensland. He left his job and made himself and us available to build this house on the hill overlooking a valley. Dad was thrilled when he was creating, shame Mum couldn't appreciate it, only use it to further her own agenda. Whether it was out of obligation or fear, my sister strangely complied. She still hasn't explainded that one to me...

Country Life and New Beginnings

After Alby’s death, we camped on my sister’s property while Dad built her house. Eventually, we upgraded to a caravan, leaving behind the tent and its wildlife horrors. As a city girl accustomed to the extreme cleanliness of our mother, adapting to the bush was a challenge. School offered no reprieve; the rural town was a quiet backwater in the 70s, it had a couple of pubs, a servo, a cafe and bakery and the school.

Still, life in the country had its charms. I adored the tawny frogmouths perched on fence posts at dusk, blending into the weathered wood. Over two years, I found small joys: helping my brother-in-law with his cattle and spending time with kind neighbors, like the older couple who ran a tomato and cucumber farm.

Mrs. L, the farmer's wife, became a grandmother figure to me. She let me help with cooking and chores, making me feel capable and valued—feelings I rarely experienced at home. Whether peeling potatoes or baking scones, I felt a sense of belonging that contrasted sharply with my family life.

The Family Fractures Further

When I was around twelve, the ultimate family conflict unfolded. By then, Dad had built the house to lock up stage, there was still work to be done on my sister’s house, but we left her property under strict orders from Sis: no further contact any of them including my niece, or nephew. It was designed exact a revenge. The severance was painful but also a relief for my sister. Though I resented her for abandoning me, I understood her need to escape. The estrangement lasted eight years.

Mum, meanwhile, had fallen in love with the area. She purchased 22 acres nearby with Felix’s help, ostensibly for retirement. This set the stage for one of her more questionable schemes: exhuming Alby’s remains.

The Exhumation

When Alby died, Mum buried him on my sister’s property, a serene spot overlooking a valley. However, when relations soured, Mum decided Alby needed to be relocated. Instead of seeking legal permission, she enlisted Dad to retrieve the remains. He built a metal coffin in our garage, and we drove to Queensland, towing the makeshift tomb behind our combie van.

At dawn, Dad dug up the old wooden coffin, carefully transferring Alby’s remains into the new one. I sat nearby reading a book, helping when asked, numb to the surreal nature of the task. At the time, it seemed normal—Mum’s will was law. Looking back, it was a chilling testament to her control.

A Family Entombed

Back on our land, Dad built a brick crypt for Alby. It became the centerpiece of the future retirement home Mum envisioned. But over time, Mum’s focus shifted. She turned her attention to Felix, her “golden boy,” whose tragic death by his own hand years later was another casualty of her suffocating control.

Mum’s unrelenting need for dominance shaped every chapter of our lives, leaving scars that lingered long after the conflicts ended.

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“Somehow I believed it was my obligation to do right  by her because she had given me shelter.”