My husband, Jason, and I were never the lovey-dovey, hearts-and-flowers types on Valentine’s Day. The most I could expect was a simple card – no mushy stuff – and a homecooked meal for dinner, but I didn’t mind. I was happy to leave the cheesy romance to others. Yet, despite our low-key love, it’d eventually become the most important – and lifechanging – day of the year to us.
I’d met Jason, then 28, in February 2010, and by December 2013 was nine months pregnant with our first child. It should’ve been an exciting time – and it was – until I was made redundant from my job as a graphic designer just before my maternity leave started.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Jason promised, and while it wasn’t ideal, we managed at first. Layla was born that month, exploding into our lives in a bundle of dirty nappies, constant feeds and baby babble. Jason’s income as a self-employed renderer kept us afloat, and once we were in a routine with Layla, I took on some freelance work. Only, a year later, Jason​ injured his back at work and was laid up as he recovered. With no money coming in, we quickly started struggling. One afternoon in January 2015, I sat in the living room staring at a pile of unopened bills while Layla, then one, crawled around my feet.
Our rent was due, too, but checking our bank account,I felt a sense of dread. ‘Thirty pounds,’ I whispered to myself, anxiety washing over me.
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