Over the following weeks, whilst continuing with work, school, managing a life-threatening condition, and adjusting to new surroundings, we slowly began to settle into our new dynamics.
After Peter’s funeral, after so much back and forth, Jane collected her things and moved into the third bedroom. She was sandwiched between her kids, and there was no place she would rather be. She had lived for the weekends snuggling up with them, listening to their voice notes, FaceTiming, and making memories wherever she could squeeze them in. Now, as I lay down at night on the couch that wasn’t long enough to stretch out on, with a blanket my mum had thrown at me weeks earlier itchy at times, but familiar I would just listen. The silence spoke to me.
The TV sound travelling down from my sister’s room.
The kids watching TikToks.
Singing along to a song on the TV.
Jane shouting out:
“GOOD NIGHT, LOVE YOU!”
And them all yelling it straight back.
Then: “Night, Cass. Love you.”
Some nights I’d hear the tiny squeak of the bedroom doors opening, the thud of feet on the floorboards as they moved around. I could picture everything without even trying.
Bailey would be trying on clothes she’d ordered usually from Shein and I’d hear:
“Ooooooh baby girl, that looks f*cking stunning… or do you want my honest opinion?”
Corey would be snuggled up for a film.
My heart was bursting with happiness and sadness at the same time. I would often look over at Peter’s canvas on the sideboard and ask, Why did it have to happen this way? How had it come to this?
Then came the herd, thundering down the stairs, hunting for the cheese feast. Nachos were always the first choice but honestly, they would bite straight into the block if they could.I started buying cheese in bulk just so they could have these moments. Sometimes they’d laugh, sometimes they’d just be still, but they were together.
When we first returned to the house, I was conscious that it was drastically quieter. I felt it. And as much as I tried to cover some of the silence, there was no getting away from it. I was traumatised just trying to get my bearings I didn’t have the energy for everything. One of the first things people would say when meeting Peter was how loud he was. He had one volume and to others that would seem like shouting. You would hear him before you saw him. He’d be laughing at TikToks, blaring his Netflix show, or doing his favourite thing: winding his mates up on the phone.
I guess some people are just blessed with a good voice box lol. These moments, these sounds were the heartbeat of the house. Jane is so similar to Peter in so many ways, and thankfully this was one of them. Loud. Chaotic. You always knew she was there.The house was now filled with new sounds, and for that, I was relieved.
I had taken on financial responsibility initially, and whilst so much was uncertain, Jane had started to get things in place putting a plan together that meant they wouldn’t need this support going forward. It was a relief. It meant I could contribute towards what we’d all need longer-term, without fear. Jane was incredibly thankful for my support and even asked if I would help with managing things which I was more than happy to do. On difficult days, I didn’t want her to have to think about how she was going to get to the shops the shopping would just be delivered. She wanted to make sure the house had everything it needed: snacks, everything for movie nights, after-school munchies, and long rainy days. I reminded her that we were there to help on the days she needed rest. And she did need rest. Her condition demanded it. She couldn’t do everything at once, even though her heart always wanted to. Supporting her like this wasn’t a burden. It was just what we did for each other.
Jane and I are very different people.I'm measured, controlled, “uptight”, “posh”, as she would say. I’m the oldest of three, so maybe it comes with the job description. My mum was 18 when she had me, and like most first-time mums, she was overprotective. Add being a teenage mum with something to prove, and that energy stuck. Jane, on the other hand, is free. Relaxed. Chill. Loud.
She had her first daughter at 16, and with the age gap between us, we hadn’t lived together in years. Yet here we were.
When she moved out of town over the last few years, I saw her every other weekend. I’d drop Corey off, and she’d meet me at the car for a kiss and cuddle so she wouldn’t interrupt my plans too much.
She was usually wearing odd socks and something of mine she’d either borrowed or I’d left behind.
“Why?” I’d ask.
“Why not?” she’d say.
And honestly, you can’t argue with that.
We were taking it day by day. Building memories. Keeping the kids busy. Jane found it difficult at first to rely on me for school runs. Old feelings of having to depend on family must have been triggering. And whilst it’s not the same, I’ve come to know the guilt of being a guardian the constant pull of responsibility.
Jane had dreams for her life and her children, and everything changed in an instant. Imagine not being able to control your own body movements. Imagine needing a baby carrier just to keep your newborn safe. And imagine having no idea why. It was heartbreaking for all of us the symptoms behaving like so many different things, always shifting.I'll write about my perspective on her condition in its own blog, as it deserves that space.
She resented needing help, and I don’t blame her.
One night I joked:
“Do you not think I’ve got better things to do? I could be on a date with a millionaire right now, sending presents for the kids!”
We laughed because sometimes humour is the only thing that keeps you standing.
Once we settled in, we found our groove. I did the driving and shopping; she did everything else. We split the housework.
Every night we’d look at Peter’s picture and ask, “Is this real?”
“WTF, Jane,” I’d say.
We cried together. Laughed together. Stared at his photo as if the stillness might answer back.
Sometimes I found myself staring at his arm in the picture, thinking, I know that arm.
It was like my brain couldn’t fully connect with reality. Jane told me every day three times a day that she thanked him for the gift he’d given her: their children.
I naturally think ten steps ahead, especially when it comes to the kids. Jane is laid-back; details wash over her.
She’d ask me what needed doing that day. Some days I know it irritated her. But she also needed routine to thrive, so I took the aggro and kept moving.
Some days she’d voice-note me at work:
“All done, sis. I’ve smashed it.”
Other days:
“I feel like your child like I have to run everything past you.”
No one talks about how illness changes a relationship.
The grief of losing the relationship you should have had.
The guilt of stepping into a role you never wanted.
The frustration of wanting the best for someone but sometimes sounding like a parent.
I don’t know if it was her illness or just me being the big sister but who wants to be advised/helped all the time? It’s a lot. She didn’t need to run everything past me. But she was vulnerable and over my dead body would anyone EVER take advantage of her again!! Not on my watch.
Trauma and grief aren’t new to our family. They’ve visited us in different seasons, shaping us whether we asked for it or not.
Jane would send me pictures of the food she’d cooked, and once she found her rhythm again, I could finally support from a different place. I didn’t have to rush home anymore. And I didn’t want to. They were together. Where they belonged.
I started to imagine what this unexpected journey might look like, and I felt relieved knowing they had each other.
They would heal each other. The kids knew their parents’ relationship hadn’t worked in the traditional sense but they also knew how deeply Jane and Peter loved each other.
And in another life… maybe it would have worked.