“There will always be people who doubt you, Thomas,” his mother had said, “it’s up to you whether you let them bring you down.”

Thomas had been six at the time, clinging to his mother’s skirts, palms grazed from slipping over gravel. He couldn’t quite remember how it had happened, but the memory of his mother wrapping him in her arms was as strong as her peony perfume.

“There now,” she’d kissed both his hands, raw with scrapes, “you’re alright. A mother’s love is no match for pain.”

Thomas had kept those words too. He remembered all the lies his mother told him.

“Now,” she’d continued, setting him on the kitchen table, “what were you doing playing outside? You know it’s dangerous out there.”

Thomas had hung his head. “Sorry, mamma.”

She’d clicked her tongue, but a smile crept at the corner of her lips. “It’s alright, just make sure you never do it again.”

His mother had stood up then, striding over to the sink to wash her hands. “There will always be people who doubt you, Thomas,” she said, “it’s up to you whether you let them bring you down.”

Before he could ask what she meant, his father entered the kitchen and his mother began doting on him instead.

So six year-old Thomas slipped silently off the table, hiding his scraped palms up his sleeves, and vowed never to play outside again.