Storm Goretti hit on Thursday with a violence we were warned not to underestimate—100-mile-an-hour winds, government alerts telling us to stay home, brace, wait it out. And it did what storms do best: it took things.
My back garden was demolished. Fences down. Debris everywhere. A place that once felt held suddenly stripped back to bone.
But storms don’t only take.
Weirdly—almost inexplicably—the pain that had been clinging to me for weeks finally began to ease. As if something in my body heard the chaos outside and decided to let go. As if the pressure had somewhere else to go.
Friday night, Tilly had a sleepover. And Joel and I had something rare and precious: a Friday night that belonged only to us.
We ate. We curled into each other. We laughed so hard my sides hurt—the good kind of hurt. The alive kind.
And for a while, the ghosts of Gravethorn were quiet.
No testing. No bracing for impact. No waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just warmth. Presence. Ease.
We talked about the future—our forever home, our summer house, the shape of the life we’re building. Not in grand declarations, but in gentle certainty. The kind that doesn’t need convincing.
I am slowly—finally—realising something I’ve fought for a long time:
He’s not going anywhere.
I don’t need to test him.
I don’t need to push him away to see if he comes back.
The storm tore down what was already fragile.
And in the quiet after, it left behind something solid.
He is my forever.