I love the sound of my children screaming with delight. Their giggling and merry-making is such a beautiful sound, skipping around the corridors of our home, singing in my heart. Playing on the floor with their plastic animals, their legs waving freely in the air, to the gentle beat of childhood innocence.

Aaron likes the dinosaurs, whilst for Rachel, it’s farm animals. Where they got these ideas from, who knows. Ruth and I look at each other, speaking in silent delight within our eyes, pleasure in their unique creativity.

I met Ruth just after finishing University, she completing her masters’ degree, whilst I was searching for that first, all important job. My career just about to launch, our romance a whirlwind. Passionate and excitement was the plat du jour, a dish we both enjoyed without care or restraint.

Interrailing across Europe, the sights and sounds of continental cities live in my memories. I particularly remember the view across Rome from St. Peter’s basilica on a crisp, spring morning. I can feel her hand in mine, as I remember the sun creeping above the horizon. The bite of the frost receding in the warmth of Ruth’s presence beside me.

Marriage then children, timed to perfection. Our parents were delighted, a fairytale romance, the expected 2.4 kids, our careers and lives as parents balanced. Don’t get me wrong, we had the usual relationship challenges. What marriage doesn’t? But we knew what was important. We were in love and we were happy.

Of course, none of this is true.

This is what my parents wanted from and for me, a romance they so desperately tried to cling on to themselves.

It was in the screams of my mum’s horror, desperate for me not to tell her it were true. The rage and hurt in her eyes, disappointment and despair in my father’s.

“Tell us it is not true“

I stood at the fork in the road. Do deny myself for their happiness or deny their happiness for my truth?