Although Wordfather eventually took on the responsibility of doing the main grocery shopping on Saturdays—mainly because I refused to carry that burden any longer—I still felt guilty. To ease that feeling, I started having the groceries delivered, as if that could somehow compensate for everything I could no longer do or give. It was yet another adjustment, another small piece of myself that I felt I had to surrender. There was a period, somewhere between his jobs, when Wordfather was temporarily unemployed—or, as he preferred to call it, “in between jobs.” I don’t remember exactly how long it lasted, perhaps a month or two, but what I do remember clearly is how little I saw of him during that time. I had imagined that we might finally spend more time together, but instead, he disappeared into the shed day after day. Hours would pass with him out there, on his phone, talking endlessly, as if he were living in a completely separate world. It felt as though he had drifted even further away from me than before. That shed became his refuge, and I was left behind in the quiet of the house, surrounded by a growing emptiness. It was during those days that I came to a painful realisation: you cannot truly lose something you never really had. The relationship, the marriage—it all felt like an illusion, something that had never been built on a solid foundation.
That same pattern carried through into the way we raised the children. He constantly undermined me, contradicting everything I said or did. If I asked the children to clear the table, he would immediately step in and say, “That’s not necessary, I’ll do it.” I was always cast as the strict one, the one setting boundaries and enforcing rules, while he became the “fun” parent who effortlessly dismantled them. It felt as though I was raising the children on my own, constantly swimming against a current that only dragged me further under. When my disability benefit was finally approved, the extra money felt like a strange kind of blessing. It was meant to relieve pressure, but for me it became something else entirely—a chance to finally do something for myself. I bought a camera, something I had always dreamed of, something through which I could express my creativity and reconnect with a part of myself that had been buried for so long. I no longer cared what Wordfather would think or how much conflict it might cause. That camera was mine. It was a small reclaiming of my identity in a life that had gradually stripped so much of it away. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it wasn’t, but in that moment it felt necessary—something I needed in order not to disappear completely into the role that had been imposed on me.
When new neighbours moved in, it felt as though the universe had finally decided to bring a little light and joy back into my life, like a fresh breeze after a long period of suffocation. The neighbour next door turned out not to be a stranger at all—he had grown up in the same familiar village as I had, just one street away. The coincidence brought an immediate sense of recognition and comfort. But it was his partner, whom I affectionately called “the neighbour,” who truly brought something special into my life. As a theatre teacher, she radiated a creative energy that instantly resonated with me. We connected right away, as if we had been friends for years. The idea to start theatre lessons for the girls at school came almost naturally, one of those ideas that simply appears and feels right from the start. Theatre classes were often expensive, and I knew there were so many children who dreamed of participating but couldn’t afford it. When I suggested the idea to her, she embraced it wholeheartedly. It felt as though everything was finally falling into place.
I approached the school to ask whether we could rent a classroom, and to my surprise, they offered it to us for free. It almost felt like magic. At first, we worried that we wouldn’t find enough children, but I refused to give up. I called every parent I knew, and in the end, we gathered a wonderful group. What began as a small initiative quickly grew into something much bigger. The neighbour was even asked to direct the Year 8 end-of-year musical. During the lessons, I often stood there with my camera, capturing moments, completely absorbed in the joy of it. She saw my creativity and made space for it, which meant more to me than I can express. For the first time in a long time, I felt truly seen—recognised for what I could do and who I was. Together, we designed flyers, and soon the school began asking me more often to take photos during important events. It was as if I had finally found my place again.
And perhaps the most beautiful part of all was that I had one day each week that belonged entirely to me and Riddle Daughter. That time together was priceless. I watched her blossom, just as I began to blossom again myself. The theatre lessons gave me so much on a personal level. I wasn’t only developing my skills as a photographer, but also rebuilding my sense of self and confidence. After so many dark periods, this became a time where I finally found glimpses of light again. ❤️
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