We were sipping our drinks, Jo and I, on a cold winter’s eve.

The bar was empty save for the Australian personality behind it, rotund and kind, keeping a watchful eye on us two girls and our untouched drinks. Frozen glasses, frozen in time.

“You know, when I was little,” Jo began, a smile curling her red lips, her black curls framing her face. “I had always thought of my dad, my mom and me as the three stars, the Orion.”

I nodded at her in encouragement.

“And so long as there were the three of us, everything was fine,” Jo continued.

But then your father passed away, I said silently to myself, and things have been difficult since.

My parents are my stars of the Orion. Who are yours? (Picture: Wiki Commons)

Jo’s face looked troubled. She wrinkled her brows, taking a sip of her drink: “It has not been easy. It’s a constant battle, but my dad, he brought me up like a son. I will fight.”

I often wonder at how fundamentally important it is to have had a safe and happy childhood, something we may take for granted, but for those of us who struggled, who were abused, not a given.

Even now, I still miss my parents, not being in the same country as they are. And I have fought with my demons.

My parents are my rock, even if they may not fully understand what I had gone through as a child.

My stars of the Orion, they are. Who are yours?