I Thought I Was Doing the Right Thing.

We left the château on September 25th, 2018. Our wedding anniversary.

I know. Symbolism. Perfect.

I’d had my son in March 2017, and almost overnight, the boss turned on me. Not my husband. Just me. Ruthless little digs. Constant criticism. Subtle. Icy. Everything I did was suddenly wrong.

And the worst part? I was loyal. The most loyal.

If I’d known then about harassment laws in contract law, I would have got advice. Proper advice. Because what she really wanted was for us to give notice so she didn’t have to pay redundancy. That’s what it was. But hindsight is a beautiful, expensive thing, isn’t it?

We handed our notice in April. Fake polite. Smiles. “Of course, we understand.” We could have left immediately. We should have left. But no — moral obligation. False loyalty. Pride. We stayed for the summer season. The busiest, hardest, most profitable summer. We didn't have to. But we did. Because that’s who we are ! (Apparently.)

The moment when I knew we were done? She came down the stairs holding a marble-sized amount of dust in her hand. From ten bedrooms. Acting like she’d uncovered the crime scene of the century. I remember thinking: Is that all you’ve got?

Yay me.

When we finally left in September 2018… it was relief. Pure relief. New chapter, community of friends and new possibilities. 

Or so I thought.

The year before we left, my husband’s aunt passed away. She left us money. Family money. Careful money. Not flashy. Not stupid. Just enough to secure a future.

SARL time.

And here’s where it twists.

We were advised to open it by someone we thought was a friend. A professional. Someone from the château world. Not random. Not a stranger. Someone we trusted.

They directed us to a specific accountant. “This is the one you need,” they said And I asked questions. Loads of them. Nervous. Excited. That new chapter energy.

But my gut?

My gut was screaming: this isn’t right. Stop. Stop. Stop.

And I pushed it down. Foolish!

Because friends don’t steer you wrong, right?

…right? Boy I was so foolish!

The accountant was supposed to be the safeguard. The grown-up in the room. The one who makes sure you don’t accidentally destroy your financial future.

Instead?

We followed advice that completely backfired.

Ice cream van. Removals. Cleaning company. Thriving. On point. Working hard.

Then Brexit.

Then Covid.

Slow suffocation. Not dramatic collapse. Just… air leaving the room. And the inheritance? Gone. Yeah. That part still sits in my throat.

2023 — the year it really hit.

Sitting at the table with pen and paper. Incomings. Outgoings. The numbers do not work.

Massive deficit.

Crying.

Swearing.

Crying again.

And then pretending to be functional because dinner still needs cooking.

The social fallout? Instant. Cleaning jobs gone overnight. First ever message accusing me — in that roundabout, cowardly way — of taking money. My first ever time being accused of stealing. I actually read it twice thinking, “Sorry… what?”

Facebook posts stopped coming. Invitations vanished. Silence. So much for a supportive community! 

Not subtle silence either. The loud kind.

Apparently I became toxic.

Make that make sense.

Anyone who actually knows me knows I will help you in anyway I can. I will show up. I will listen. I will back you. I don’t half-do loyalty.

But I went from close confidant to leper overnight.

No argument.

No conversation.

No explanation.

Just distance.

And here’s what I’ve come to understand.

It wasn’t me.

It was never me.

It was them.

They were comfortable when I was useful.

They were comfortable when I was confident but aligned with them.

They were comfortable when I was generous and available.

But when circumstances changed? Suddenly I was inconvenient and what people tell you in private — the secrets, the confidences, the “just between us” — those things were never mine to weaponise. I kept them. Because that’s integrity.

But not everyone operates like that.

Maybe that’s the difference.

Maybe I’m not who people think I am.

I’m not weak.

I’m not irresponsible.

I’m not reckless.

I’m someone who trusted.

And was betrayed.

Food bank. Now there’s an experience. Lovely people. All backgrounds. All stories.

And me chatting away like I always do.

But quietly inside? Dying.

Embarrassment.

Shock.

Rage.

My son, of course, says something that puts it all into perspective. The innocence of a child and all that. I try to shield him. Sometimes I slip.

I’m still processing it.

Still.

Last year my husband finally qualified for chômage. So when he finished at Futroscope in January this year 04/01 We were sitting together when we saw it.

January Chomage: €186.

For January.

I just went “phffflll.” You know that noise when your brain refuses to compute?

Prime d’activité? €421.

Rent? €600.

Yeah, thanks France. That’s helpful.

I contacted the owner and promised we’d catch up. Because that’s who I am. I will communicate before I disappear. I’m still hoping we can pay full rent this month.

Sometimes — and this is the honest bit — I want to rewind back to the château. Because if I knew then what I know now? I would have walked away to our house in Limoges and done things very differently.

But we don’t get to rewind, do we?

And then last week. I go to the bank because I don’t even have an account in my own name. I wanted something that was mine. Proof of address. Independence. Basic adult stuff. We’re in Leclerc at the time. Walking the tiles. Calculating what we can buy with €7 to last until Tuesday.

Romantic, isn’t it?

Message left from the bank. They can open an account for my husband. Not me. Same debt. Same story. I replay it in my head. Swear out loud. My husband listens. What can he do? He’s frustrated too. I’m frustrated. Yes, I’m angry.

And the “friend”?

Tumbleweed.

Active online. Thriving. Connected. Too well connected in SW France for me to speak freely. Slander laws and all that.

I’m furious, not at life, not because hard things happened, but because we did the right things, we stayed loyal, we followed professional advice, we worked, we tried to survive.

And somehow… somehow… I’m the risky one.

The rage is real.

The disbelief is real.

The injustice is real.

I’m writing this because maybe — just maybe — someone reading this will think,

“Oh fuck. That’s not right.” and realise they’re not the only one quietly standing in a supermarket counting pennies and pretending they’re fine.

Because this?

This is real life.

Tina

XoXo

For those who've reached out asking how to help our little family, I've shared the link below. No pressure, reading and sharing this is already more than enough. Thank you.

https://gofund.me/1f02a232e

Message from Donna

I consider Tina my sister in life and one of very few I trust and have worked with extensively over several years, no issues. In fact she done more for me than I probably ever paid for. I don't feel France is a great bed fellow for Brits or indeed women in general. I hope Tina gets the opportunities she really deserves.

D x