Some memories are knocked out by ether, suddenly, inexplicably like death.
But there are those which hold on like kites, stubbornly clinging on meshed fence despite pressured wind, rain or snow.
She was nine years old when she ran through the night in terror, thinking her mother was dead. It had been the worst fight yet.
There were many other incidents of crazed abuse and relentless unhappiness in that house, but perhaps just enough love to get by.
Looking back, she remembers hearing similar stories from other kids. But there is something about that episode that shaped who she became.