But didn’t.
This week broke me.
Not slowly.
Not in soft, manageable ways.
It came at me sideways — full force, full volume —
and I kept pretending I could take it.
Tilly has been unbearable.
Heartbreaking.
She’s been lost inside something too big for her,
and I’ve been the punching bag for it.
Tears. Screaming. Tantrums that left me shaking.
Words that dug deep and kept twisting.
She has her dad’s temper.
And when she explodes, I see him in her — and I flinch.
Even though I know she’s not him.
Even though I know she’s nine and scared and overwhelmed.
Still — it hurts.
More than I ever admit out loud.
By midweek, I was hanging on by a thread.
Not the poetic kind.
Not the “but I’m strong” kind.
The kind that frays when you breathe wrong.
She finally passed out, sweat-drenched and tangled in a blanket.
Joel was on the sofa, trying to hold space with his quiet presence,
but there was nothing left in me to give.
So I walked.
I left the house.
No coat. No shoes.
Just out the door and down the path —
to the end of the terrace.
It wasn’t far.
But it felt like crossing something sacred.
Like stepping into the part of me that was ready to disappear.
I wanted to keep going.
I wanted to vanish.
I wanted to stop being needed for five fucking minutes.
To not be screamed at.
To not carry it all.
To not be the strong one, the calm one, the “safe space” who never gets to fall apart.
I didn’t run.
But I wanted to more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
And still… I came back.
That’s the part no one sees.
Not the leaving.
Not the thousand invisible choices made before the leaving.
Not the shaking hands.
Not the standing under the streetlight wondering if vanishing would feel like rest.
They only see that I came back.
That I always come back.
Because I’m her mum.
Because even when she says she doesn’t need me — she does.
Because even when I want to leave — I don’t.
And no one claps for that.
No one hands out medals for not running.
But it counts.
Even when it breaks you.
Even when you sob into the arms of the man who loves you and feel like nothing about you is worth holding.
Even when your daughter cuts you with the same fire that once destroyed you.
Even then — it counts.
Because I stayed.
Because I came back.
Because I didn’t vanish.
And some days, that is the most courageous thing I’ve ever done.