Staring at our family pictures hanging on the walls, I feel truly blessed to see all our smiling faces. ‘Is that my daddy?’ asks my eldest daughter, and I follow her finger to a picture of my late husband, Jake. ‘Yes, sweetheart. That’s him,’ I smile, but inside my heart is aching. Although I adore my husband, Chris, 32, and the life we have together, there will always be a part of me that belongs to Jake.
I met Jake while out with friends in December 2009, aged just 17. He was cute and funny, with the most amazing brown eyes, and I liked him instantly. A few days later, he messaged me on Facebook. ‘Do you want to hang out next weekend?’ he wrote.
‘Sure!’ I replied, excitedly. The connection between us was instant, and within weeks we’d made it official. He was my first real boyfriend, and my first love – I’d never been happier.
Then, in May 2010, we discovered I was pregnant. As happy as we felt, we were terrified, too. I was from a strict Christian family who were disappointed when they found out, but they still agreed to help us as much as they could.
‘You can move into the basement,’ my mum, Diane, 49, told us. ‘That way, you can prepare for the baby and save for a place of your own.’ It meant everything to know that she was on our side, and I quickly began nesting, buying sleepsuits and a cot. Jake started looking for a job, which was strange given our friends from school were busy talking about nights out and plans for college. But I didn’t mind that we were different. ‘I already know I want to spend the rest of my life with you,’ I told Jake – so who cared if we were jumping ahead. Weeks later, Jake proposed, and it seemed like I was living my own little fairy tale.
Bubble of three
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