It's kind of weird how this works out you see, up until the age of 12 I was living in luton with my mother, father and 2 sisters aged 9 and 14 (when i was 12) and me and my sisters had been living in this lovely 7 bed house all our lives and our parents had been living there 4 years gefore my eldest sister was born. And one day my mum whilst holding a bunch of washing in a very small basket was struggling with the overflow of the clothes and the weight of it so she called up to me and asked me to help I said no because I was reading the paper and wasn't too keen on helping out around the house so she did the task herself and as she walked down the stairs she slipped and bashed her neck in some place and fell down the whole flight of stairs, I was the first one on the scene and saw her body on the foot of the steps and her head twisted round resting on the stairs, blood dripping from her mouth, she wasn't dead yet though. In fact she made an amazing recovery and 2 weeks later choked to death on a carrot.

Me my sisters and my dad moved to london because of my dad not being able to live in that house without my mum so we arrived to london and assassinated my grandparents on my dads side so we could inherit the money and put it towards the amazing house my dad would use as a project to take his mind off my mum. Soo 9 years later im still living in it with my dad along with my youngest sister, my dad and Clare (fiancé). And everyone is so happy and enjoying life and I love Clare so much. So should I be happy and greatful that my mother died or should i build a time machine and help her with that washing.

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