Walking and photography had become my daily refuge, a sacred ritual that brought me peace in the chaos. Every day I would head out into nature, camera in hand, seeking something I could hold onto. The silence of the natural world, the rustling of leaves, the shifting light on the water—those were my moments of serenity. Capturing the beauty of the seasons in photographs gave me a sense of connection, of calm, as if I could freeze something stable in a life that felt anything but. Back home, I would spend hours behind the computer, editing my photos, enhancing the colors, reliving those moments of quiet beauty. I also loved taking portraits, especially within my own circle. There was something deeply fulfilling about trying to capture someone’s essence, their soul, in a single image. And then, unexpectedly, life took another turn: a new man entered my life. It started with an email, completely out of the blue. To my surprise, it was from a boy I had once known when I was thirteen and he was sixteen. We had met during a holiday on Texel, fallen into that innocent kind of teenage love, spending our days talking endlessly, wrapped in the simplicity of young affection.

One memory from that time never left me. One night on Texel, I had quietly slipped out of my tent, like any lovestruck teenager would, just to be with him. Together we went to a bonfire outside the campsite, enjoying the warmth, the freedom, the feeling that the world belonged to us. But when I returned, I was met with a sharp reality. As I carefully tried to open the zipper of the tent, thinking I was being quiet, I suddenly heard my mother’s voice cut through the night: “You don’t have to be quiet!!” I was caught. My heart nearly stopped. The verdict was immediate: for the rest of the holiday, I had to sleep in the front of the tent. There I lay, staring at the canvas, listening to the wind over Texel, wondering how I would ever earn back my mother’s trust.

That one email turned into more contact. Emails became messages, and messages became daily conversations. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. We started seeing each other once a week, usually on weekends. We would walk by the water, sit at a café, or simply spend time at my place, talking about the past and the present. It felt good to reconnect, to laugh again, to share things with someone. But not everyone welcomed this new chapter in my life. Riddle Daughter, with her sharp perception, quickly noticed what was happening. Watching us talk and message, she said, with a slightly strained expression, “Is he going to take my sweet mommy away?” What I didn’t fully realise was that from the moment Wordfather had left, he had been video calling her every evening. His voice still echoed through the house, as if he had never truly left. I thought it was good for her, that their bond remained strong. It reassured me. But perhaps I was too naïve, too hopeful, not seeing how deep that connection was becoming.

Then one day, she came to me, her eyes determined, her voice quiet but firm. “I want to live with Dad,” she said, without hesitation. The words hit me like a blow. My heart seemed to stop, the room began to spin, and the ground beneath me disappeared. Everything I had been holding onto suddenly felt unstable. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room and I was left standing there, breathless, not knowing what to say or do. How could this be? Why? Those questions raced through my mind, unanswered. Part of me wanted to scream, to hold her, to beg her to stay. But I knew I couldn’t. I had to respect her choice, no matter how much it hurt. A knot formed in my stomach, fear spreading through my body. It felt like rejection, like I had failed as a mother. What had I missed? Where had I gone wrong? I tried to speak, but my voice broke, tears streaming down my face. “Why do you want that?” I asked, barely audible. Her answer cut straight through me: “Because I want to,” she said softly.

What followed was an argument I am not proud of. Her words had struck something deep inside me and all my suppressed emotions came flooding out. I could no longer remain calm, no longer be the composed mother I wanted to be. The fear of losing her, the helplessness, it overwhelmed me completely. In reality, it wasn’t even practical for her to live with her father—he worked long days and she would be alone most of the time. But that didn’t matter to her. She simply wanted to be with him. Despite my attempts to stay rational, the painful question lingered: was this the beginning of cracks in our mother-daughter relationship? Had I overlooked something that was now pulling her away from me? Eventually, her wish came true. I don’t know if it was the right decision, but when my new partner lost his job, it seemed logical to take the next step and move in together. He was no longer tied to his hometown and the timing seemed right. The day he moved in felt like a relief. For the first time, I didn’t have to carry everything alone. He was clear with the children: he was not their father, but my partner, and he respected that boundary.

But with this new situation came unexpected consequences. I had always been honest with Wordfather about living together, but his fear that the children might like my new partner more seemed to hit something in him. He abruptly stopped paying spousal support—legally, he had every right. At the same time, my partner’s ex filed a lawsuit over child support because he had reduced his payments after losing his job. We followed all the guidelines, did everything by the book, but the stress of the legal battle and the financial pressure weighed heavily on us. We won the case, but the costs were high and it became clear we could no longer afford the house. Then things escalated in a way I never saw coming. What began as a normal argument turned into something unforgettable. My new partner, who had lived in his own world for years, tried to adapt to life with me and my children, but that adjustment brought tension we hadn’t anticipated. The unrest between us grew, simmering beneath the surface until it crossed a line that should never have been crossed. It was a harsh realisation, one that shook me awake. This was not something I could ignore or excuse as a one-time outburst. It became painfully clear that our relationship, however well-intentioned, had been built on unstable ground.

The emotional damage lingered. What we had hoped would be a fresh start turned out to be not just difficult, but destructive. Our children, who had already endured so much, were once again faced with a situation where adults lost control. The dream of a blended family turned out to be an illusion. It had all been too much, too fast, and it placed all of us in a situation where pain became inevitable. We had underestimated the complexity of our own histories and those of our children. Instead of healing, we had reopened wounds—both in ourselves and in each other. It was a hard lesson, one I could no longer ignore: living together had been a mistake, and the price we paid was far too high.

In the end, I had to make a decision I never wanted to make. I asked Wordfather if he would move into my dream house so the children could stay in their home. I couldn’t bear the thought of taking away their sense of safety as well. So I made that sacrifice. They chose to stay, and I understood completely. This wasn’t about choosing between parents, but about holding onto the place where they felt secure. Through a family member, we found an apartment for me, and my role as a mother was reduced to seeing Riddle Daughter twice a week and Professorson when he had time. It felt like a step backwards—no, more than that. Motherhood, once the core of my life, had been reduced to fragments. And even though I knew I had done what was best for them, I felt lost, as if I had left a part of myself behind in that house… along with them.

☕️ A cup of comfort—just a moment for you.

Sometimes you simply need a pause.
Not another reflective question.
No analysis. No judgment.
That’s why, here and there throughout this book, you’ll find a cup of comfort.
A small moment to breathe.
A piece of text that doesn’t ask anything of you, but simply gives.
Not to solve anything, but to sit beside you for a while—like a friend would.
With a cup of coffee. Or tea. Or wine.
Read it as a warm hand on your shoulder, or a soft voice that says:
“You don’t have to do it perfectly. You’re already doing it.”