Nightime, I am woken by voices and creep downstairs. My parents are sitting on the low wicker sofa in the little holiday home on the Danish coast. There is something wrong about their postures, huddled forward, hands clenched, tears on my mother's face as they listen to the voice on the radio. A male voice, a man somewhere in a radio station cubicle, maybe with a steaming mug of tea or coffee next to the piece of paper he reads from about Prague and demonstrations and Russian tanks and uprising and bloodshed and more and more words that make my mother cry out, while my father tries to comfort her: they won't come here, now, now, don't worrry, we are all safe.
I climb into my sister's bed and we cannot make sense of this. The next morning, after breakfast we are off to collect shells on the beach, my parents hiding behind their sunglasses reliving their war time traumas in the midst of this perfectly ordinary family outing. Two young vulnerable people trying, all the time trying their best to move on.