As many others before him, my dad came to this country from Cyprus when he was 15-years-old, with just the clothes he stood up in. It was 1958 and he was fleeing a volatile situation on the Island and landed in London not really having a next step planned. Since then he's made his way, been married three times, led a full life and watched his island from his not so new home.
Now I have reached that point in my life when I try to remember what it was like to watch one daughter see off all-comers at netball, and the other complete her gymnastics routine in a packed hall. The memories are there, because there were rare occasions when I did tear myself away from work. But they are not as sharp as I would like, perhaps because my mind was often on other things, my mobile phone clutched tightly in my hand.
I imagine a young Emmeline Pankhurst's Mum despaired over her tiny daughter's strong-willed determination at everything. I wonder if some days she wondered if she could handle another debate over the simplest of things. I wonder if there were days when she considered trying to get Emmeline to just being so opinionated.