It's easier to run away; distract yourself from the helplessness inside by changing everything on the outside. I hid my wounds so deep that no one in my new life even knew they existed. Change was so much simpler than dealing with those wounds - leaving it all behind and never looking back. But family, family I couldn't let go of.

When I left the country ten years ago, my sister Sharnie had been the exact opposite of monogamous. In fact my best friend Lizzy always described Sharnie as the whore from hell. I returned home in time for Sharnie's hens' night on Wednesday, three nights earlier.

Within an hour of arriving I determined that Sharnie hadn't really changed. She was still reckless, impulsive and entirely self-absorbed. I could only guess that Sharnie's husband-to-be worshipped her enough that she could leave her days of promiscuity and needing to be wanted by everyone else behind.

My parents standing alongside me in the front pews of a church only added to the surreal atmosphere. Sharnie getting married in a church was unexpected. Growing up, Sharnie hadn't a religious bone in her body, possibly because it required her to worship someone other than herself. The church was obviously the groom's decision.

Family members I hadn't seen in forever kept coming up and reintroducing themselves. 'Wow!' Uncle Bruce exclaimed as he gawked at my cleavage. 'Sharnie used to be the pretty one, but I reckon you'd win a wet t-shirt contest outright now.'

Bruce was the pervy uncle who all the post-pubescent girls stayed clear from at the family functions, especially once the alcohol started flowing. 'So Bruce, I remember you being taller and having more hair. What happened?' I feigned my best concerned look. Bruce chuckled, gave my breasts one last leer, licked his lips and stalked off to find a seat.

The groom's men came out of the side chapel, laughing quietly. The tallest of the three drew my attention. My heart skipped a beat as I remembered dragging my nails over his naked surfer's body only two nights ago.

One-night stands were not normal for me. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had sex before Thursday night. But the guy was gorgeous, like a young Patrick Swayze but with darker, almost black hair. He'd been out with his mates for the night and I was spending my second night back in the country catching up with my old friends.

We were catching each other's eye all night, exchanging smiles and appreciative glances. When my friends left, I used the bathroom before heading back to my hotel. As I walked back into the pub he caught my arm and kissed me. No introductions, no cheesy pick-up lines, just his mouth on mine, his body pressing me to the wall in the back corridor.

I stiffened long enough to see who I was kissing and then I went with it. The next morning I woke totally embarrassed by my behaviour. I'd loved every minute of it, but the confusion of acting out of character saw me sneaking out of his apartment while he slept.

Now he was standing at the altar where my sister was about to get married and I feared the worst. I sidled closer to my mother and whispered in her ear, 'Who's that?'

Margaret looked over, smiled at the men and turned smiling to me. 'That's the groom of course,' she answered as if I'd asked the most absurd question in the world. I blanched and grabbed the back of the pew as my knees threatened to buckle beneath me.