On the 14th of December 2011, sitting down at 2pm, I realised I was on my own.
A fact that was mindblowingly exciting, even through the haze of diminishing rage. An hour early I had discovered that my partner of ten years and the father of my two children was, despite his assurances to the contrary, still fucking his 19 year old mistress.
Sitting dry-eyed on our bed, still trembling with adrenaline and amid half empty drawers and wardrobes, I felt a bubbling sense of freedom.
I had a mere £15 in our joint account, a four bedroom house with thousands of pounds in mortgage arrears, a beat up 11 year old Mondeo (on its last legs and registered to him) and two small girls oblivious to the catastrofuck that had now become our lives. But through the hurt, the humiliation and the heartbreaking pain the overriding emotion was excitement.
Excitement that I could be who I wanted to be, excitement that I could steer my life in any direction, excitement that I would no longer have to compromise my existence for the happiness of someone else.
And so the story of my life began… my only regret being that I hadn’t had the sense to do it sooner.