The Saddest Girl in the World by Cathy Glass

bracelet on purpose.
    ‘Donna,’ I said, sitting next to her on the bed, ‘can you please try to tell me what's going through your mind?’ It was at times like this that I really wished I was a psychiatrist, with a better understanding of what made children tick, rather than a mother and carer who had to rely on intuition, some training, and experience from looking after children.
    Donna shrugged again.
    ‘When we were in the kitchen, why did you think I was going to hit you?’ I asked gently, taking her hand in mine.She didn't resist, and I stroked the back of her hand and waited.
    She shrugged again.
    ‘Come on, love. I want so much to understand and help you. But I can't unless you try to tell me. Why were you cleaning? You didn't accidentally spill something, did you?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘So why did you think I was going to hit you? That worries me.’
    Her mouth opened and closed before she spoke; then eventually she said quietly, ‘My mum did. If I didn't clean well.’
    ‘Your mum hit you for not cleaning properly?’ I asked.
    She nodded.
    Good grief! I thought, but I kept my voice steady as I asked, ‘How often did that happen, Donna?’
    She shrugged again, then after a moment said, ‘Lots. It was my job to clean the house for when Edna came. Mum said if I didn't keep the house clean Edna would take us away.’
    ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ The logic of trying to clean the house before the social worker made her visit had a dismal ring of truth about it. Edna had said she thought Donna had felt responsible for them being taken into care, and Donna had admitted to me the night before that she blamed herself, but I doubted Edna knew the extent of Donna's sense of responsibility, or that her mother had made her clean, and had hit her for not doing the job properly. I would have to remember as much as possible of what Donna was telling me so that I could write it in my log notes, then tell Edna when I spoke toher. ‘Donna, when you say your mother hit you “lots”, what do you mean? Every month? Every week?’
    ‘Every day,’ she said in a small voice. ‘With a coat hanger.’
    ‘A coat hanger?’ I asked, horrified.
    ‘A wire one. She unbended it so it was long. It hurt.’
    I inwardly cringed and gently rubbed the back of her hand. ‘I'm sure it did hurt, sweet. That was very, very wrong of your mother. No adult should ever hit a child. A mother shouldn't, and I certainly won't.’ Obvious, but not necessarily to Donna, who — from what she was telling me — had been beaten on a daily basis.
    ‘The boys used a skipping rope,’ she added matter-of-factly.
    I stopped rubbing her hand. ‘Your brothers hit you too?’
    She nodded. ‘With the skipping rope. It had a wooden end on it.’
    I stared at her, aghast. ‘Why did they hit you?’
    ‘When I didn't do the cleaning as good as I should. Mum said they could. And they liked it.’ I felt such a surge of anger towards Warren and Jason at that moment that had they been in the room I would have given them a good telling-off, although in reality they were probably as much victims as Donna was, having learned their behaviour in a household that appeared to survive on perverted discipline.
    ‘Donna, love,’ I said, ‘that was so very wrong of them. People don't hit each other, and certainly not members of the same family. Brothers and sisters, mums and dads should take care of each other, not bully them and cause them pain. I will never hit you,’ I said, reinforcing what I had said before. ‘Neither will Adrian or Paula.’ The notionof which seemed slightly ludicrous, given that Adrian and Paula were much smaller than Donna, but then Warren and Jason were only six and seven.
    Donna gave a faint nod, and I continued to look at her downcast profile. ‘What about Chelsea and your dad? Did they hit you?’
    ‘Chelsea did, but not Dad. I looked after him when he wasn't well. I tried to get him to take his tablets,