In late autumn 2015, I woke up shivering at two in the morning and saw the first frost of winter sparkling on the bonnet of my car. It was a sight I found terrifying. I was homeless, sleeping in my car and, instead of looking forward to Christmas like everyone else, my focus was on staying alive in the cold to come. It was like staring down a tunnel with no light at the end.
Rewind a year from that night and no one would have believed I'd end up in such desperate straits. Back then, I was living with my husband and two sons, then 15 and 17, in a beautiful part of Cornwall. Home was a detached four-bedroom house with two cars on the driveway. And as Christmas approached, you would have found me wrapping gifts and decorating the tree, like any other mum.
From the outside, we looked like a perfect family, but behind closed doors, it was a different story. My marriage had been desperately unhappy for years, and my mental health was in tatters. I yearned to leave but had nowhere to go. My family was miles away, in Bristol, and we were no longer close. Besides, I needed to stay local because my job, in a department store, was my only independent source of income.
One day in March 2015, after yet another blazing row, I knew I had to leave. I walked out with just my phone, car keys, the clothes on my back, and no plan other than a vague idea of sorting somewhere to live, with room for my kids. My husband hated me socialising so I had no friends - the only people I could call on were work colleagues. They were incredibly kind, and that night I crashed on someone's sofa.
This story is from the December 2022 edition of Woman & Home UK.
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This story is from the December 2022 edition of Woman & Home UK.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 8,500+ magazines and newspapers.
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