Chapter 5: The Middle Days

There was a stretch of time, after the fire but before William got his new keys, that felt like we were caught in the middle of something — not grief, not healing, just the in-between.

William had no home. Only the scorched frame of the one he'd grown up in. Josephine moved like a bridge between two broken ends — Bray on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Dublin the rest of the week.

She carried everything in a single holdall bag. Spare clothes, a notebook, some letters. That bag was with her at William’s, at mine, on every bus and Dart train in between. She never once complained. Not about the tiredness, the heaviness, or the way her time was no longer her own.

In Bray, she helped William clear out smoke-damaged clothes, salvage papers, meet inspectors. They’d sit at the old kitchen table — now just a charred skeleton of wood — and talk as if Billy, his father, might still walk in.

In Dublin, she rested. Not much. But enough to stay upright. We watched DVDs on loop. She ate what we had. Sometimes beans and toast. Other times, just tea and biscuits. There was comfort in the routine. A strange kind of family, born from ruin.

No one official offered help. No emergency accommodation. No counselling. No outreach from Special Olympics Ireland, though they knew her well.

It was just us.

And we didn’t know it yet, but this was as close as we would ever get again.

Before the house keys came.
Before the visits stopped.
Before the club took hold.

These were the middle days. The hardest.
The most honest.
The most human.

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