It is the first day of the Christmas holidays and I am hiding from my children in the loo so I can eat Quality Street in peace. They have stopped hammering on the door and are now cheerfully rifling through Ben’s bedside drawers. Any minute now he will storm in and ask for his watch back or fish his air pods out of the bin and I will feel guilty for needing chocolate and space.
2025 for me has been a year that includes the worst of times, and times that were I guess, OK. Its a year in which I got married - lovely, although Ben was in agony all day. Its also a year in which I was repeatedly told that my husband was going to die.
My baby turned one. My toddler turned three. I have for almost a month now, finally not had two under two. It has got harder not easier. Still my love for them grows.
I had thought that the hard part was over. That’s what I told the therapist Ben and I went to visit. I had thought that remission would mean clutching each other like Jack and Rose if she’d let him on the raft. We’d be survivors and Celine Dion would sing that our hearts would go on and on. Instead we’re both still stuck in the freezing cold water, co-parenting with empty cups.
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