When My Daughter and I Fell Apart
I'd left my husband.
I'd left the marital home.
But that didn't mean fifteen years had suddenly disappeared.
My husband and I were still talking.
Still trying to make sense of what had happened.
Still discussing whether there was anything left to save.
We'd even talked about still going on the family holiday together.
Emotionally, I was all over the fucking place.
But practically?
I needed somewhere to live.
Eventually, I was offered temporary accommodation.
And when I told my friend?
She was delighted.
She told me she was proud of me.
Told me to go for it.
“Your life is going to be so much happier and less stressful.”
I believed her.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe I was finally going to have a home that was mine.
A bit of peace.
A chance to work out who the hell I was after fifteen years of marriage.
Except instead of life becoming simpler?
Everything else started falling apart too.
And the first relationship to really explode was one I never expected.
My relationship with my oldest daughter.
My First Baby
This wasn't just anybody.
This was my first baby.
The girl I'd had when I was twenty.
The little girl I'd mostly raised myself.
The child I'd watched sitting at Mum and Dad's window waiting for a dad who didn't turn up.
For years, it had been me and her.
Then the boys came along.
Then other relationships.
Other children.
Life got bigger and more complicated.
But she was still the one who'd made me Mum.
So when our relationship started breaking down?
It fucking hurt.
And then she sent me a long message.
A really hurtful message.
I was devastated.
And what did I do?
Exactly what I'd become used to doing whenever somebody close to me upset me.
I sent it to my friend.
Because by this point, that's who I'd come to trust.
“Did She Forget What You've Done for Her?”
My friend's reaction was immediate.
She started reminding me of everything I'd done for my daughter.
The times I'd been there.
Sorting things while she was in hospital.
The time she'd had a fit and I'd called in sick to work to be there for her, despite knowing I could potentially lose my job.
All the things I'd done because she was my daughter.
Because that's what mums do.
And when I was already hurt, hearing somebody say, essentially:
After everything you've done for her, this is what you're getting back?
made me feel defended.
Seen.
Then her language got much stronger.
She called my daughter:
“Judgemental little bitch.”
Then:
“How did that come out of you?”
And:
“What the actual fuck? Who the fuck does she think she is?”
My daughter.
My friend was talking about my daughter.
And I need to be truthful about my reaction at the time.
I didn't immediately turn around and say:
Don't you dare speak about my daughter like that.
I was hurt.
I was angry.
I felt attacked by what my daughter had sent me.
And here was somebody saying:
I see what you've done for her. I see everything you've given.
So at that moment?
It felt like somebody was defending me.
Looking back now, I wish there had also been another voice.
One saying:
She's your daughter.
You're both angry.
You're both hurting.
Don't make permanent decisions while you're feeling like this.
Give it time.
Because this wasn't some random person I'd fallen out with.
This was my child.
But that wasn't the advice I was getting.
Instead, my friend told me my daughter was an adult.
That I owed her nothing.
If she cancelled the holiday?
Then she lost out like everybody else.
And gradually the message became:
Stop chasing.
Stop explaining.
Stop defending yourself.
“Let Them Come Back to You”
My friend eventually described my oldest daughter as:
“Fucked in the head.”
My husband?
Poisonous.
My sister?
According to her, she didn't give a fuck about me.
My family?
Controlling and selfish.
And one thing she told me sticks out:
“Nah, you owe no one anything. Let them come back to you because they fucking will.”
And I listened.
Because I thought she was the one person who understood.
I didn't see what was happening as somebody encouraging me away from my family.
Not then.
I saw it as somebody finally giving me permission to stop running after everybody.
I'd spent my whole life trying to fix things.
Trying to keep people together.
Trying to explain myself.
Trying to make everybody happy.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe for once?
They could come to me.
Then Came My Sister
Things with my sister became strained too.
My husband told me my sister was raging with me.
And once again?
I went to my friend.
She couldn't understand why my sister wasn't speaking to me herself.
Why wasn't she coming directly to me?
Why wasn't she asking what had happened?
She said she didn't understand the women in my family.
Then came the voice notes.
Why was my sister shouting at me?
Why wasn't she supporting me?
Why didn't she have my back?
Why was she pulling me down instead of building me up?
According to my friend, my family were trying to control me.
They were selfish.
Bitchy.
And once again:
Stop defending yourself to everybody.
The difficult thing was that she was touching on hurts that already existed.
My sister and I had history.
I loved her.
I still do.
I'd driven halfway to collect her before.
I'd listened to her.
Tried not to judge.
Been there through her own ups and downs.
But there had also been times I'd felt she hadn't given me the same loyalty.
Times I'd felt she'd listened to somebody else's version of events without first asking me:
“What actually happened?”
“What's your side?”
So when my friend started telling me my sister didn't have my back?
Again...
it landed on an existing wound.
And that made it easier to believe.
My World Was Getting Smaller
That's the bit I couldn't see properly while I was living it.
One by one, the relationships around me were becoming strained.
My husband?
Don't engage.
My daughter?
She's an adult. Stop chasing her.
My sister?
She doesn't have your back.
My family?
Controlling.
Selfish.
Bitchy.
And my friend?
She was the person I was telling all of this to.
The person interpreting everybody else's behaviour for me.
The person who always seemed to understand.
She'd send me posts too.
Things about:
If you want to paint me as the villain, I'll pose.
Things about detachment being game over.
Social-media quotes.
Memes.
The kind of stuff friends send each other all the time.
But the message I kept hearing was:
Detach.
Stop arguing.
Stop defending yourself.
Stop letting people control you.
Choose yourself.
And I drank it in.
Except I Still Loved My Husband
I'd left him.
But I hadn't stopped caring.
We still had a daughter together.
A family.
Fifteen years.
One day, we ended up arguing over something as stupid as a reel I'd liked.
I told my friend.
Her response?
“Why did you partake in that argument though? You've left him. Ignore him. Don't allow him to continue the same behaviours.”
Logically?
Maybe she had a point.
Emotionally?
I hadn't switched fifteen years off.
And there was still that holiday hanging over all of us.
The Holiday
Remember how this holiday had started.
It was originally our family holiday.
My husband and me.
The children.
Then I'd invited my friend and her kids because she was a single mum and nervous about taking her children abroad alone.
Then my marriage collapsed.
But even after I'd left, my husband and I had discussed still going.
Then my relationship with my daughter deteriorated.
Arguments.
Messages.
More hurt.
Eventually my oldest daughter made her position clear.
If I went on the holiday, she wouldn't.
And somehow?
I became the person who had to remove herself.
From my own family holiday.
So I did.
I took myself off it.
And then there was my friend.
The woman who'd spent months telling me my husband was an arsehole.
Controlling.
Poisonous.
The woman who'd encouraged me to leave.
Apparently?
Her holiday couldn't be changed.
Couldn't be cancelled.
So she still had to go.
Which meant the holiday would now include:
My husband.
My children.
Her.
Her children.
And not me.
At the time, I accepted that there were bookings and money involved.
I didn't yet have all the information I'd eventually have.
But even without knowing what came later?
It was a fucking strange position to find myself in.
I'd invited this woman into my family holiday because she was my friend.
Now my marriage had ended, my daughter didn't want me there, and somehow I was the one no longer going.
Then Came Our Night Away
Around this post-separation period, my friend and I also had the night away we'd planned.
Something for us.
A break.
Except apparently our night away included a little detour.
She had a date.
So we stopped on the way.
She went to meet him.
And I sat in the car.
For nearly three hours.
Waiting.
Three hours.
On our night away.
Apparently I'd spent so many years waiting for men that I'd now expanded the service to friends too.
But I didn't make a big deal of it.
I waited.
Made excuses.
Understood.
Same old me.
And I still trusted her.
“You Need to Have Some Fun”
Then the conversation started changing.
I'd left my husband.
I had temporary accommodation.
Things with my daughter were a mess.
Things with my sister were strained.
And my friend started telling me:
I needed to have some fun.
I'd been dead inside for years.
My husband was never going to change.
Why shouldn't I go on a date?
Why shouldn't I enjoy myself?
Why shouldn't I have something that was just for me?
And after years of feeling ignored, unwanted, lonely and exhausted?
That sounded pretty fucking appealing.
I didn't want another husband.
I wasn't looking for some huge love story.
I wanted somebody to talk to.
Some attention.
Some fun.
I wanted to remember what it felt like to be a woman instead of somebody's wife, mum, employee, taxi driver, cleaner and general fixer of everybody else's shit.
And then...
Snapchat.
A man added me.
We started talking.
Nothing dramatic.
Messages became video calls.
Video calls became longer conversations.
And we got on really well.
He lived a fair distance away.
Eventually?
He invited me down to see him.
I told my friend.
And she encouraged me.
Go.
Have fun.
Enjoy myself.
She told me to drive safely.
Let her know when I arrived.
She told me not to think about everybody else.
Focus on myself.
The gym.
Eating healthier.
Days out.
Plans.
A new life.
And I listened.
Because what was the worst that could happen?
I'd go down.
Meet him.
Have some fun.
Come home.
Maybe, for once, do something purely for myself.
Except this wasn't going to be a bit of harmless fun.
This man was going to become the person who controlled where I went.
Who I spoke to.
My phone.
My car.
My money.
Eventually, practically every minute of my life.
And one day?
I would genuinely believe he was going to kill me.
But I didn't know any of that as I got ready to meet him.
All I knew was that somebody seemed interested in me.
After years of feeling invisible?
I fucking loved that feeling.
And that's exactly where the nightmare began.
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