Enjoying a sunny day with my family in our garden, I smiled. My tall, handsome husband, Fred, 44, and I had done good. Our sons, Trin and Sam, were beautiful young boys, our marriage rocksolid, our life idyllic.
We’d met the decade before, when I was 18, and we were engaged three months later. A year after that, we celebrated with a traditional wedding.
I became a marketing director, Fred a housing designer.
Yet, 10 years on, everything changed – and I was forced to change with it.
Trin was two and Sam was seven weeks old in 2005 when I took them to see my mum, Akassia, in California. Fred stayed home in Oregon.
While I was away, he called and said we needed to talk about ‘clothes’. His…