The greatest betrayal from my family came on Christmas. I was little. There was no dinner and no presents. Only a film set and a machine that submerged us in water. I was told by the producer to stay put and stay silent. I could breathe underwater thanks to a mask and also watch the filming. I should ask no questions, and if anyone wanted to know what I was doing down there, I had to turn the other way.

My aunt was an actress, glamorous and sexy. She wore push-up bras and showed her cleavage. She was the star of the aquatic film. My old uncle was there too with his white beard and sagging skin.

At the bottom of the sea a submarine brought the remaining cast over. The trunk popped open before my eyes. The actresses were blonde and partly undressed, their makeup drifted away from their faces and bled into the sea. They were dead. I was the only one who noticed. There were many of them.

Extras, the producer said. It’s perfect this way. Nobody looks dead underwater, he explained.

But to see my family, adults with cleavage and wrinkles and beards, organize such a scene on Christmas day. To see them interfere with graves and dead people and plunge them down into the deep sea. To think they assumed I could understand what I saw, was devastating. It was the greatest betrayal of all.