Chapter 9 – 30’s (part 4)

We got back from the holiday, and I made sure SH knew—right there at the airport—that I wanted nothing more to do with him.

To my surprise, he seemed to accept it.

It was a relief to be home. Life picked up where it left off, and I didn’t expect J’s phone calls to continue. I’d written him off as a holiday fling—a bit of fun, nothing more. Sure, I was flattered. A younger man showing interest? It felt good. But I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Not after SH. I was glad to have something light, something without baggage.
But I visited Birmingham to see him. And it went well. I remember buying trainers and funky cargo pants, trying to look younger than my 30-something self. Lol.
We spent hours on the phone. He made me feel young again. He came to visit me—and never went home.
By February, I was pregnant.
It was a whirlwind, but I just went with it. He was like an old soul trapped in a young man’s body. Kind. Solid. Those early years together made me very happy.
Keelan arrived just before Christmas. Ginger like Emma, and so serious for a baby—but he was the boy I had longed for. My heart felt full. My family felt complete. J found work, and life began to settle.

Then one day, everything changed.

I was home alone with Keelan, watching TV in the living room. I heard someone coming through the kitchen door. I assumed it was J back early from work. I got up to greet him—and froze.
It was SH. Standing in my kitchen.
He looked at Keelan and said, “I wanted to make sure he wasn’t mine, because I’m not sure I believe you got rid of ours.” Then he added, “I can see he isn’t mine—he’s the image of his dad.”
“Sorry to barge in,” he said.
I screamed at him to get out. I was terrified.
I ran to where J worked. He told me to call the police. They paid SH a visit and warned him off.
But then the flowers started arriving again. Valentine’s gifts I thought were from J—weren’t. It was SH. Like a dog with a bone, refusing to let go. I was afraid he’d never stop.
Eventually, it faded. Life moved forward.
J wanted another baby. I didn’t. He pulled out all the stops—roping in friends, family, even bar staff on nights out—to convince me Keelan needed a sibling.

Three years later, at 37, Kai was born. After a difficult birth, I knew he would be my last.
For a while, life drifted. I was happy. His parents emigrated to New Zealand and he wanted us to go too—but I didn’t want to leave.
And then one day, I came home from work and he was gone.
No note. No warning. He’d packed up and emptied our bank account. Just disappeared.
I spiralled.
I didn’t want to be a single mother. Not again. I struggled for years. He had convinced me to leave our secure council house and rent privately. Convinced me to have another child.
Then left me.
Worse still, one of his friends told me the truth: he hadn’t just left me—he’d left the country. On Valentine’s Day.
My heart shattered. I was alone with four children. And the darkness took over. I never wanted to be a single mum. But I had no choice.

Reflection
Looking back, I don’t know how I survived that kind of abandonment—not just once, but again and again, by men who promised something and left me holding everything. I was always the one left to sweep up the mess, hold the babies, and find the strength to carry on. And somehow, I did.
At the time, I blamed myself. Wondered what I lacked. Why I wasn’t enough to stay for, to fight for. But the truth is, their leaving had nothing to do with my worth and everything to do with their cowardice.
I didn’t sign up to be a single mother of four. I didn’t ask to be left in financial chaos or emotional freefall. But life doesn’t always ask your permission. It just hands you the wreckage and waits to see if you’ll rebuild.
And rebuild I did. Not perfectly. Not without pain. But I kept showing up—for my kids, and eventually, for myself.
That version of me—the woman who kept standing when everything crumbled—deserves a damn medal. Or at the very least, to finally stop apologising for the storm she survived.
MissT