Chapter 5. My 20s part 2

When the City Lost Its Lustre

With my first love behind me, the incidents with Mum, all I could think about was escape. Not just from the heartbreak—but from the small town that held too many memories and not enough air. One of my best mates had already left for England, and I couldn’t stand still any longer. I needed to run. To fly. To disappear into somewhere new and unrecognisable.

I landed a job in a cash and carry and moved into a little bedsit. It wasn’t much—but it wasn’t home, and that was enough for me. Then came a job at a local finance company, plus weekend shifts behind the bar of a busy pub. Life moved fast, and for the first time, so did I.

Back home, I’d been someone everyone knew. In the city, I was no one—and I found comfort in that. I could walk streets without being recognised, drink pints without questions, and dance without history. There was freedom in becoming a blank page.

But I was still healing. Still carrying the ache of a love I’d thought would last forever. The kind of love you think you’ll never get over until you do—slowly, in the quiet, without even realising it. The city made me feel invisible, and somehow, I liked it. Nights out were wild and messy, my best friend always by my side. There was joy there, even if it came wrapped in hangovers and heartbreak.

I missed home sometimes—its softness, its pace—but those years? They were mine. And they were some of the happiest I’ve ever had.

—

When He Walked In

Just as the city started to lose its shine, he walked in.

Tall, self-assured, with a cheeky smile that landed like a challenge. He wasn’t my usual type—quieter, more grounded—but something about him made me lean in instead of running. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe I just needed something… softer.

He made life feel still. After years of noise, of running, that quiet was intoxicating. We weren’t fireworks—we were warmth. A slow burn that, at the time, felt like safety.

We moved in together sooner than made sense, but it felt right. Like I’d stumbled into a new chapter by accident and decided to stay. He was older, more settled. And I think some part of me wanted to be those things too. I’d done reckless—I wanted steady.

He gave me structure. I gave him heart. It worked.

Or at least, it felt like it did.

I started to picture a future with him—one that looked nothing like the past. A home. A family. The kind of love that doesn’t shout, but quietly holds. Looking back now, I wonder if we were truly in love—or just two people trying not to be alone. But back then? I believed in us. I believed in what we could become.

—

Love, Life, and Letting Go

We moved into a flat together—small, warm, ours. I fell pregnant with Lauren, and not long after, Emma arrived. Motherhood took me by the hand and pulled me into something bigger than myself. We became a family. The rhythm of it all, the routine, the noise—it felt like a life being built brick by brick.

My dad helped us get on the housing ladder, and for a while, it felt like we were doing it—really doing it. Becoming grown-ups. I poured myself into that life—into the girls, into the home, into being “his person.”

He was a builder by trade—hands calloused, back strong, heart steady. One of those men everyone liked. People just trusted him. He didn’t have to say much—his presence did the talking. Reliable. Decent. The kind of man my younger self would’ve run from, but my tired heart leaned toward.

And I did love him. In a way that felt gentle. Safe.

But as the years passed—nine in total—I started to feel that familiar tug. A quiet longing for something I hadn’t realised I missed.

Home.

Not the house we’d made. The home I came from. My roots. My people. My beginning. I didn’t want to go back alone—I wanted us to go back. I wanted to start over together, closer to the place that made me me.

But he wouldn’t budge.

I’d bent for ten years—shaped myself to his pace, his path, his picture of what life looked like. And when the time came for him to bend, even just a little… he wouldn’t.

I wrestled with it for months. Tried to bury the ache. Told myself I could settle. That maybe I was being selfish. But the truth is, I wasn’t asking him to follow me—I was asking him to meet me. And he didn’t.

So I left.

I packed up our girls, and I went home. I was 33. And somehow, life just kept going. I came back changed—stronger, sharper, more certain of who I was and what I needed. But I’ll never forget that Grangetown boy. The one with the cheeky smile and the steady hands. The one who walked in when I didn’t know I was ready to love again.

He was a good man. A true gent.

And if I’d known then what I know now…
I never would have left.