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Packing the last few bits into the suitcase, I zipped it shut. It was summer 2007 and my husband, Mark, and I were taking our daughter, Elizabeth*, then two, away for a week in Newquay.
It was just what we all needed. Lately, I’d noticed that Mark seemed stressed. He worked as data engineer and I’d put it down to him feeling tired. He struggled to sleep and was always up in the middle of the night, having a cigarette in the garden.
‘I’m fine,’ he always shrugged when I asked if he was OK. But I was worried.
We’d met in 2000 at our local pub, and married two years later. Then our daughter arrived in December 2004. Life had been busy, so this break, I hoped, would help Mark to relax a little.
Only, just before our trip, Mark called my mobile from work.
‘I’ve spent all of the holiday money,’ he confessed.
‘You’ve done what?’ I gasped.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Mark was so frivolous with money, and I was furious. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he promised, and like a fool I believed him.
Somehow, we scraped together the money to go away, but it wasn’t the same. No cash for ice creams or rides at the fair. Instead, we had to count every penny.
Back home, a few weeks later, I was out buying some crockery, but when I tried to pay, the woman on the checkout frowned.
‘Sorry, your card has been declined,’ she said.
‘That can’t be right,’ I replied. Mark worked hard and I had a good job with a printing firm. I was sure there was plenty of money in the account.
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