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of emotions. The next morning, instead of going to school, she ran away from home and took refuge with a friend in Johannesburg, who thankfully phoned to let me know she was safe. Torn between anger and worry, I took Tracey back to the psychologist in the hope that she could connect with her, find a solution and stop our family from been ripped apart from the inside. She talked long and deeply to Tracey, unpicking the threads of her unhappiness and fear. We were all very worried about the signs of depression and the possibility that Tracey might try to take her own life. Fi nally the psychologist recommended that we remove her from the school as soo n as possible; she believed it was the cause of a lot of Tracey’s problems.
    The new school we found for her didn’t offer any sporting activities, but Tracey could continue her sports through the sports club. We hoped that the smaller classes and the removal of the pressure of school sports might do the trick. A huge hurdle in Tracey’s eyes was overcome when her old school’s sporting body agreed that she could still play in the school softball league.
    After a few months at the new school, she seemed to be much less harr ied and stressed, but still spent a lot of time alone in her room with her music. Many a time she would tell Buddy or me that she had no friends and was lonely. Neither of us could help her. She had always been popular but now it seemed that she was holding herself back from her friends to spend time alone.
    For her sixteenth birthday we gave Tracey a motorbike. She had been motor bike crazy since we took her for a short ride on one when she was a toddler. I want a bike, bike, bike; it had been a constant refrain in the intervening year s. The bike wasn’t new and its engine wasn’t particularly quiet, but it was all we could afford. Tracey was elated.
    The motorbike was to give her many happy hours. She would ride when ever she could, often asking if we needed anything from the shops just so she had an excuse to go out on it. She loved the freedom it gave her, and she loved the sound of its engine, even though it wasn’t a patch on the gruff, throaty roar of a large bike.
    And that was how she met Peter. On her way to school one mild morning in September, her bike started belching black smoke. It backfired a few times. And then it died. Nothing Tracey tried to kick-start it back to life had any effect. She didn’t have a cell phone so she was stranded until a tall, thin man dressed all in black stopped to help. He took off his helmet to re veal gentle, blue-green eyes and mousy blonde hair with a hint of a curl.
    â€œNeed some help, I see,” he said with a smile. “My name’s Peter. Let’s see if I can get this thing going again for you.”
    Being a bit of a bike-lover himself, he knew a thing or two about what ailed them, so he managed to get it started and hopped onto his own bike to follow her to school and make sure she got there safely.
    It was love at first sight. Soon she and Peter were in contact with each other almost every day. If Peter wasn’t phoning Tracey, she was phoning him. Most nights we would hear the dogs barking and the sound of running feet as she rushed to open the garden gate for him.
    â€œHi, I’m just on my way home from work and popped in to say hello,” he would say, sticking his head around the lounge door to chat to Buddy and me for a few minutes before disappearing to talk to Tracey.
    At first our daughter seemed to be much happier. She was at a new school and she had found a special friend in Peter. When we heard her laughter, we knew that they had been together. But both of them were concerned about the ten-year age gap, so the relationship was on and off from the start. If it wasn’t Peter, it would be Tracey saying that they shouldn’t see each other for a while, but these splits never lasted long. When they were separated, Tracey would go out with her