The story one tells oneself, and projects toward others, at a particular time, might be wholly necessary for your well-being, even your survival but, as time passes, if not relinquished or refashioned, it may become destructive of your, and others' lives. It was one of the most helpful lessons of my own analysis - the story was necessary then, but now? How might it be surrendered and reshaped? Hugh Brody's mother was a Jewish refugee from Vienna, fleeing to Sheffield in 1938, falling in love, marrying, and hiding into the safety of English 'normality' by silencing her past, sheltering her children from the knowledge of where she had come from, why, and how many of her extended family were perishing in the Holocaust. But silences like this, though very real, are rarely watertight. Her mother, Brody's grandmother, whispers, and intimates other narratives; and, his mother is distorted by a passionate anger that rips through his family life, unexplained. Brody was ini