Sometimes when my nephews call me, I don't answer the phone. I hide, knowing that the call will be about an argument; their mother screaming, their father throwing things, threats made in anger, tears shed in pain. It's an angry place, Scotland, or at least my family's small part of it is.
It's taken me twenty five years to get the aggression out of my hair and I want to keep it out. I brace myself and call back the next day, hoping everyone will have calmed down.