chapter 13

Final Chapter – I Became Her

By MissT

So, there we were—in the refuge.
Full circle, after ten long years.

I’d stood there once before with Lauren and Emma.
Now I was back, this time with my boys.

To say I was disappointed in myself would be too soft.
I was gutted. Furious, even. Not just at the situation—but at myself.
For trusting again. For hoping again.

We were eventually moved into a house in my hometown, and while it should have felt like homecoming, all I felt was grief for a version of life I’d wanted but couldn’t reach.

I’d learned hard truths about someone I’d loved. And though he said we could return to the house, I couldn’t go back.

We cut contact. And it was hard.
Because I really did love him.
He was supposed to be the happy ending after a long road of heartache.
But life doesn’t always deliver what you think you’ve earned.

With the boys settled at school, the loneliness crept in again.

I had no idea I was about to meet the man I would eventually marry.

We met on a dating site.
He was kind. Gentle. Attentive.
He made me laugh and feel listened to in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

He was open about his mental health history, and I admired his vulnerability.
When the pandemic hit, we made the big decision to live together.
It was quick, yes. But we were in love—and life felt short.

The early days were golden.
We were close, connected, and content.
My children liked him. I did too.

After three years, we got married.

Things began to shift when life demanded more of us.
His son moved in. The house felt smaller, the pressure heavier.
I did my best. I always do.
I tried to be everything to everyone.

But over time, I was carrying too much.
And no one seemed to notice how tired I was getting.

He began to struggle more.
The weight of it all—the past, the pressures, the parenting—it all landed on my shoulders.

I tried to help.
I bought things to make life easier.
I rearranged rooms. Rearranged my schedule. My needs. My whole sense of self.

I kept going. Even when my heart didn’t want to.

There were moments that broke me. Small ones. Like the day a neighbour’s cat died in my arms, and he barely looked up.

I needed comfort. But there was none.
And something in me snapped.

We separated briefly. I was emotionally spent.
I needed air, and instead I got silence.

He moved out. I grieved.
But we stayed connected. Tried again. Lived separately.

I found myself in the quiet of my own home—me and my boys.
I started to feel like a person again.

But patterns are hard to break.

He became reliant on me for everything: paperwork, meals, company.
When I took space, it was questioned.
When I rested, it was resented.

I carried more than love ever should.

Eventually, I began to unravel.
My body gave in before my heart did.
A hospital stay made it clear: I couldn’t keep pouring from a dry cup.

I had tried everything—encouraged hobbies, tried to help with routine, supported every low.
But nothing changed.

Each time we rowed, something broke.
And often, in those cracks, I’d find out he’d sought attention elsewhere.

That hurt more than I can explain.

In April this year, I ended it. For good.

No more trying to patch holes in a boat that was never seaworthy.
No more rescuing people who didn’t want to swim.

I was beyond tired.
The kind of tired that seeps into your bones.

And so, I walked away.

This is where I am now.
Divorcing. Healing. Rebuilding.

No man in my bed.
No ring on my hand.
No more illusions.

I’m learning to be with myself—and realising, maybe for the first time, that I’m more than enough.

There will be no more weddings.
No more rescue missions.
Just me. My boys. My peace.

I’m not chasing dreams that aren’t mine anymore.

I’m not a fixer.
I’m not a caretaker.
I’m a woman who has earned her scars and her silence.

I don’t need a hero.
I became her.

It took nearly fifty years, heartbreak after heartbreak, and endless mornings where I didn’t think I could keep going.
But I did.

This story isn’t about blame.
It’s about becoming.

And if you’re still stuck somewhere you don’t belong,
let this be your reminder:

You are allowed to leave.
You are allowed to start again.
And you were never broken—just buried.

You were always the storm.

— MissT