It didn’t last—but for a moment, it was everything.
Thursday nearly broke me.
Friday almost did.
I was holding the edge of myself with bloodied fingers,
bracing against everything threatening to spill over.
Tilly was meant to be going to a friend’s after school.
Simple.
Her dad had her for the day. I had plans.
A rare night out—something I’d been clinging to like a lifeline.
But plans twisted, as they always seem to.
His parents were flying in. Their flight was due to land at 5:30—the exact time the party ended.
I asked him to collect her on the way to the airport. He refused.
He wanted to go with his girlfriend. Said there wasn’t space for Tilly in the car.
So once again, the logistics became my responsibility.
Cancel my evening, rearrange childcare, find someone else to step in.
We landed on a compromise. Begrudging, tense—but just about workable.
Tilly came out of school glowing.
Excited, light in her face, ready to go.
And then her friend didn’t wave.
Didn’t even look at her.
And in a single blink, I watched my daughter’s, my sta’s light go out.
She turned it inward, then outward—at me.
Screamed. Slammed the door. Hit.
Hurled words and pain in equal measure.
And I broke.
Quietly. Then fully.
But I made her apologise.
She went back inside.
She smiled. She played.
And I was left—shaking, exhausted, humiliated.
Joel made a comment. Not cruel, just careless. But it was enough to split me at the seams.
I gave up on the night. I was done.
It was Joel’s last day at work. His redundancy day.
There was a leaving do. Drinks. Goodbyes.
I told him to go.
Said I’d meet him later, I’d let her Dad have his way and d show up for Tilly, someone had to.
That gave me one hour.
One hour to breathe.
To spend with Tilly after the party.
To feel steady enough to stand again.
I redid my makeup with trembling hands.
Pulled on the outfit I’d planned.
Brushed my hair into something that felt like ritual.
Dropped her to her dad’s.
And left the house as someone trying to believe she still had the right to enjoy something.
The night began softly.
Joel was surrounded by colleagues.
I stayed quiet, polite, blending into the noise—still carrying the static of the day before.
But he made space for me in his orbit.
A kiss here, a brush of fingers at my waist. Little gestures that said, I see you.
Later, we met two of my friends for a drink.
One drink became prosecco.
Peach iced tea.
Laughter that reached down and pulled something out of me—something I thought had drowned the day before.
We were supposed to go home after.
But we didn’t.
We circled back to his workmates.
And this time, I didn’t feel like an outsider.
They welcomed me with warmth. Spoke openly.
And I saw Joel in a different light—not just as mine, but as someone deeply respected.
Someone quietly funny, effortlessly kind, held in high regard.
I felt proud of him.
Proud to be beside him.
And even more than that—I felt safe with him.
Not because the day had been perfect.
But because he made room for me in it.
We grabbed food.
We went home.
We fell asleep full, tangled, and tired in the way that feels earned.
Saturday was made of soft things.
We woke early, whispered, and fell back asleep.
No alarms. No rush.
Just silence and limbs and comfort.
We had lunch out. Talked. Laughed again.
Walked into the sea, let it cool our skin,
let it rinse off the week.
He joked that every time we have a Saturday together,
I get pierced.
So we went.
I had my tragus changed to a little purple moon.
Got my third lobes done—three tiny points of reclaiming.
We went to Oatlands for new earrings.
I left with the most Gravethorn gothic teddy I’ve ever seen.
Ice cream. Sunshine.
A conversation about weekend routines—how we could carve out more space.
For him. For me. For us.
For a few hours, it felt like building something.
Something future-shaped.
And then Luca came home.
He was quiet.
Withdrawn.
Refused to speak to me.
No eye contact. No hello.
Joel asked him—gently, a few times—to say hi.
To acknowledge me.
But Luca wouldn’t. He dug in, as he sometimes does.
Joel didn’t push.
And maybe he didn’t know how to.
Maybe part of him was still hoping it would pass.
That the silence wouldn’t land so heavily.
But it did.
And in that moment, I felt it all over again—
the shift. The absence. The ache of being almost part of something, but not quite.
So I moved to the other sofa.
Not in anger. Just to breathe.
To put some space between myself and the weight I was carrying.
And then I left.
Not because I was upset with Joel.
But because I couldn’t un-feel the cold.
Because the softness we’d built over two days had been pierced,
and I didn’t want to sit in the slow deflation of it.
But this is still true:
The weekend didn’t start easy, and it didn’t end kindly.
But in the middle, we found something real.
Something unplanned.
Something that made me believe again.
And I’m still glad I reached for it.
Even if I had to let go again.