He’d been arrested. After everything that had happened, after months of living in a world where practically every move I made had to be explained, proved or defended, he was finally somewhere he couldn’t get to me. And I was still sitting in the police station. For once, nobody was demanding anything from me. The police asked if I needed a break. They got me juice. They gave me time. Nobody shouted because I couldn’t remember something immediately. Nobody accused me of lying

Getting out of the Nightmare didn't mean getting my old life back. I think maybe a little part of me thought it would. Not consciously. I didn't expect everybody to be standing outside my house with balloons and a banner saying: WELCOME BACK FROM THE FUCKING NIGHTMARE. But once he was arrested, once my family finally knew what had actually been happening behind that front door, I suppose I hoped some things might start falling back into place. My children. My grandchildren. M

While I was disappearing, everybody else was getting used to life without me. That's a difficult sentence to write. Because I didn't disappear deliberately. I didn't wake up one morning and decide I didn't want to be a mum anymore. I didn't stop loving my grandchildren. I didn't decide my sister didn't matter. I didn't decide Dad didn't matter. I didn't choose a man and happily ride off into the sunset, leaving everybody else behind. From the outside? Maybe that's exactly wha