As I patted the sofa to the side of me, gesturing to my daughters Gracelyn, then eight, and Kaylynn, seven, to take a seat I felt a lump lodge in my throat. It was summer 2015 and after a year of relentless rows and bickering with my husband, and the girls’ father Stephen, then 28, we’d decided to call time on our eight-year marriage. ‘Daddy and I have decided not to be together anymore,’ I croaked. And while seeing our girls in tears was heartbreaking, deep down both Stephen and I knew that our separation was the best decision for us all.
Stephen and I had first met 10 years earlier at the bar where I worked and after three years of friendship, we began dating in 2007. It wasn’t long before we began discussing the future. ‘Why don’t we just get married?’ Stephen blurted out after three months of dating. A little off the cuff, but I could see how much he loved me.
That March we tied the knot and in May, we welcomed Gracelyn, followed by Kaylynn in June the following year.
Those years were some of our happiest times. We took turns doing the nappy changes and night feeds, and as the girls got older, he loved playing with them on the trampoline and teaching them how to ride a bike. By May 2013, we’d welcomed our son Colston, and our family was complete.
The following year, though, cracks started to form. Having met so young, we’d both become different people and our increasingly clashing personalities saw us bicker over the most trivial of things, even the colour of the sky. It was a toxic environment for us to be in, never mind the kids, so in summer 2015, we’d decided to go our separate ways.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der August 31, 2021-Ausgabe von WOMAN'S OWN.
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