Christmas Eve was honestly magical.
We spent it as a proper combined family — me, Tilly, Joel, Luca, Shani and Mark — all together at Joel’s house. Food everywhere, laughter bouncing off the walls, and the kids playing together like actual little angels. One of those rare moments where everything feels aligned, easy, full. I held it quietly in my chest, knowing how precious it was.
Christmas Day started softly. No rushing. Just Tilly and her excitement as she opened her presents — especially the doll she’d been hoping Santa would bring… plus two more she absolutely wasn’t expecting. Her face made everything worth it. She had lovely bits from me and her dad too, and the morning felt warm and right.
Lunch at Mum’s should have been the gentle continuation — but my back had other ideas. The pain crept in and then dug its heels deep. By the time Joel came round in the evening, it was properly nasty. Still, we made the best of it: TV on, Battleships with Tills, laughter threaded through discomfort. I was hurting, but I wasn’t alone.
Boxing Day slowed everything right down. A rare lie-in. Quiet. Breathing space. Then we dropped Tilly back at her dad’s… and headed straight to A&E because the pain had escalated beyond ignoring.
Four hours.
Three rounds of IV painkillers.
A CT scan.
I walked out with a prescription and a referral to gynaecology. Not exactly the Boxing Day I’d imagined — but also not the worst, because Joel never left my side. Not once. He kept me smiling, grounded, even managed to squeeze in a hospital selfie somehow.
And still — the evening mattered.
We cooked our beef Wellington and wagyu potatoes. The table was still set. Pain didn’t get to cancel that.
Joel spent the whole evening quietly looking after me. No fuss. No impatience. Just presence. He adjusted cushions, brought meds, checked in without hovering, made me laugh when I needed distraction and sat with me when I didn’t.
Yes, my body hurt.
Yes, the day veered off course.
But this moment was still ours.
Pain doesn’t get to dictate everything.
It doesn’t get to erase flavour, warmth, or the simple act of sitting together and saying we’re still here.
I am so, so grateful for Joel.
He is like no one I’ve ever met.
Not loud love.
Not performative care.
Just steady, instinctive kindness — the kind that shows up when it matters.
Christmas wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t painless.
But it was full of love.
