Chapter 12. Late 40’s The Same Damn Room

by MissT

After leaving my hometown and settling twenty miles away, I finally shook off the menacing shadow of MK and his size 10 boots. I still flinched at loud footsteps back then. Still looked over my shoulder in shop windows. The house I moved into was big, too big really, but I needed the space, the quiet. The village was small, close-knit. Everyone seemed to know everyone. I changed Kai’s school to help him settle, but kept Kee in the one he already knew. I was trying to make the transition gentle. Trying to stop the chaos from spreading again.

I looked back at my life with a growing sense of shame. It wasn’t just the number of marriages, it was the way I’d worn hope like a blindfold, time after time. I kept betting everything on men who only knew how to take. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I still believed in love. I still wanted the fairy tale. God help me.

That’s when Andy came along.

Half Indian. Handsome. Kind. He didn’t come with fireworks, he came with warmth. That quiet, safe fire that makes you think maybe, just maybe, you’ve finally found someone who won’t burn you. For three years, he was everything I thought I needed. He told me no one had ever looked after him like I did. I cooked for him, cleaned for him, showed up for him in every way. I was loyal to a fault.

And I thought he was my soulmate.

But soulmates don’t show up only when sober.

We were offered a house by his brother, wealthy, generous, a terraced place in Trebanog. Not the prettiest place, but it had a new kitchen and bathroom, and for a while, it felt like a fresh start. We moved in, made it ours. I dared to imagine settling down. Being still.

But Andy had a ritual. Four cans every night. By can three, he was playful, cheeky, sometimes even charming. But by the fourth, he turned. Not violent, but mean. Righteous. Sharp. I named his alter ego Walter Mego, and when Walter came out, I disappeared to bed.

He told me once, “If I’m being a pain, just tell me to shut up.” But I didn’t want to argue. I just wanted peace. And silence was easier than confrontation.

While I was working, Andy was looking after the boys. Just a few hours, a few days a week. But that was enough. Kai and Andy were like two bulls in a tiny paddock, always locking horns. Kai was ten, full of fire, and trying to make sense of a world that didn’t seem to fit him. Andy, instead of helping him through it, tried to dominate him.

I didn’t see it. Not then. Not properly. But I felt it.

Kai wasn’t coping in school, so we reduced his hours. Just mornings. Andy didn’t like it. Said he was playing me. That I was being soft. But my gut told me otherwise.

One day, while Andy was on his lunch break, I mentioned the new arrangement. He exploded. Called Kai a little shit. Said, “Wait till I get home. He’ll have it.”

He was talking about a ten-year-old child.

Something inside me snapped. I told him not to come home. Go to his mother’s. And in that window, I packed everything. My heart was racing. My hands were shaking. But I knew I knew if I didn’t leave now, I might never find the strength again.

The next morning, we were gone.

Back home.

Back to the refuge I’d stayed in ten years earlier.

And would you believe it? It was the same bloody room.

The wallpaper hadn’t changed. The cheap laminate flooring still creaked the same way when you stepped out of bed. Even the smell was the same. Stale. Like time had stood still.

And that was my wake-up call.

It hit me like a slap. I was living in circles. Different men. Different towns. Same damn endings. I’d spent years rearranging the furniture of my trauma, hoping new wallpaper would make it feel like progress.

But it wasn’t progress. It was madness.

I’d dragged my kids through storm after storm chasing the idea that love could fix me. That someone would be different. That this one would finally see me. Stay. Heal everything.

God, I felt like a fool.

After we’d been in the refuge a few days, the boys started talking. Telling me what Andy was like when I wasn’t home. I wanted to be sick. My sweet, funny, kind boys carrying that tension around while I tried to convince myself we were finally happy.

I was disgusted. With him. But more than that, with myself.

Not long after, Kai received his diagnoses. Three of them. I cried not because I was afraid, but because it confirmed what I always knew. There was something going on with him. And Andy had dismissed it, belittled it, tried to shout it into submission.

I told him
“You didn’t believe him. But I always did.”

I’ll never forgive him for that. And I’ll never forgive myself for giving him the space to do it.

That chapter broke something in me. But it also rebuilt me.

Because from that moment on, I promised myself this
I would never, ever, give up my home for a man again.
Not for a house.
Not for a smile.
Not for love.
Not even for a dream.

NEVER. AGAIN.

---

Reflection: The Room That Woke Me

I used to call it love, what I was chasing.
But love shouldn’t leave bruises on the soul or tension in a child’s jaw.
Love shouldn’t demand you pack up your whole life again and again, dragging your children like luggage behind your loneliness.

I see it clearly now.
I wasn’t looking for love.
I was looking for safety in the arms of unsafe men.
Trying to be chosen so I didn’t have to choose myself.

Andy wasn’t the worst. He was sweet at times, funny, charming when sober. But even a gentle flame can burn when it’s left unattended. And in the end, it wasn’t his words that scorched me, it was his silence around the damage he caused. His refusal to see the hurt he’d left behind. Especially in the eyes of my boys.

The moment I stepped back into that refuge, into that same bloody room, I knew something had snapped in me for good. I wasn’t starting again. I was waking the hell up.

There’s no peace in martyrdom.
There’s no glory in staying just because you’re scared of leaving.

I gave everything I had to people who gave me just enough to keep me believing.
But belief without boundaries is a death sentence.

I’ve learned the difference now.

I won’t call chaos romantic.
I won’t mistake codependency for connection.
And I won’t ever, ever, leave my home, my safety, or myself behind again.

Not for anyone.

Because the only thing more dangerous than a man who drinks
Is a woman who’s finally put the bottle of illusion down and started seeing it all for what it really was.