I never really understood why I felt ashamed of my son, a red-haired boy who was kind hearted and sweet to his little sister. Yet I felt uneasy about and around him. I was not able to put my finger on what the problem was, but clearly there was one. I tried to find some help but it was a fruitless search and endlessly frustrating because no-one else could see the problem. Later, much later, I came to realise I had not been able to accept this boy in my life and heart because he was not the boy I thought he should be. Later on in my life, after he had suffered much, I was having a quiet conversation with a friend and as we spoke briefly of my relationship with my son, I knew something had broken inside me, a sort of self-imposed silence about my ending of a previous pregnancy. I awoke the next morning in the middle of a dream about this boy and realised I had wet the bed. The dream was disturbing, beyond recall, and there was some deep level of shame attached to it, this shame that I had somehow attached to this little boy all those years ago.