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I’m a nurse. But in London, I ended up mopping floors in a care home. No. Wait. Let me start again. I wasn’t even planning to write this. I was sitting this evening, having a cup of tea, and I came across an old photo on my phone. Me in uniform, at the hospital in Nottingham where I used to work. Smiling. Looking… fine. I remember that day. I remember that two hours before that photo was taken, I was crying in the toilet. That’s why I decided to write this. Just — to have it somewhere. Anywhere. My name is Sophie Williams. I’m 32. I’m from Nottingham. I’m a qualified nurse. I worked for the NHS for five years — surgical ward, twelve-hour shifts, the usual. I loved the job. Genuinely loved it, not just saying it. Three years ago, Dan and I decided to get married. We bought a small house with a mortgage — Beeston, quiet area, not far from the city. £187,000. Monthly payment — £940. On paper, it all made sense. Two incomes, stability, a plan. Then the plan fell apart. First, Dan started having problems at work — construction company, contracts dried up, nothing new coming in. He stayed positive, kept saying he’d find something. And he did try. He really did. But month after month went by. Mortgage. Bills. Food. Car. Council tax. All on my nurse’s salary. I didn’t complain. I thought — we’ll get through it, he’ll find something. Then the NHS announced restructuring in our trust. Staff cuts. I was made redundant. Not because I was bad at my job. Just — numbers, budget, a list. I was 30. A mortgage. Husband out of work. And a redundancy letter. Dan held it together at first. Then he didn’t. The tension at home got so bad we stopped properly talking. No shouting — just silence. Evenings, he’d sit on his phone, I’d sit in the kitchen with my laptop scrolling through job listings. In February he said, “Sophie, I can’t cope with this. We need a break.” I asked, “What do you mean, a break?” He didn’t answer. Just packed a bag and went to his parents’. I s
