Brimming with love, I watched the beaming faces of my twins, Charly and Oscar, as their daddy led them downstairs in their pyjamas and out into the garden. It was something my boyfriend, Matt, then 33, did every evening, just before bedtime. All three of them would traipse into the garden, look up to the sky and say ‘night night’ to the moon. It was my favourite part of the day, and Matt’s, too. He loved teaching the boys, then four, about nature and space.
‘Daddy’s going to live on the moon one day,’ he told them that night in the summer of 2018. Charly excitedly asked if he could go, too, but Matt just pulled both of them close. ‘No, but I’ll be able to see you from all the way up there, so make sure you always say night night,’ he replied. It seemed like a strange thing to say, but little quirks were all part of Matt’s charm.
Becoming a family
From the moment we were introduced by friends in 2012, I knew Matt wasn’t like anyone I’d ever dated. Our first dates were walks in the countryside, and Matt would chat about nature. He was geeky, especially when it came to facts and figures – he was an engineer – but it was one of the things I fell in love with. We moved in together within a month, and although it was quick, being with Matt made me happy.
It wasn’t always easy, though. Matt struggled with anxiety, often cancelled nights out at the last minute. ‘I just don’t want to go,’ he’d say, his face taut, so we’d snuggle on the sofa for a night in instead. I tried to persuade him to get a diagnosis, but he refused as he hated going to the doctor. I hoped time, and love, would help, yet after a year together, Matt barely ever socialised, and would sometimes miss work, hiding away in our bedroom.
This story is from the July 27, 2020 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
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This story is from the July 27, 2020 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
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