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Permission to Visit

Permission to Visit There was a time when Josephine didn’t need to ask. She had a key to my home. A key to William’s home. She came and went without question, trusted and welcomed. Her visits were part of our rhythm — Monday in Bray, Tuesday in Dublin, and so on. She was reliable, confident, and familiar. She didn’t need instructions or reminders. She just... arrived. That all changed after she joined the club in 2008. Suddenly, she was texting first. “Is it okay if I come up today?” At first, it seemed thoughtful. Polite. But then it became the rule. If I didn’t reply, she wouldn’t come. Not because she didn’t want to — but because someone had told her not to. Even more than that, she started asking me to meet her off the 133 bus in town. Josephine, who used to make that journey without a second thought, now wouldn’t travel unless she had someone waiting on the other end. She never asked for that before the club. It was subtle at first. Easy to miss. But when I look back, it was the s...
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chapter add on to around 2008 to 2014

I didn’t notice it right away. The change was slow. At first, it was just a text. “I’m thinking of coming over — is that okay?” It seemed polite, maybe even thoughtful. But before long, it wasn’t a choice anymore. Josephine used to have a key. She used to just come. That was our rhythm — no need to ask, no need to check. But now, there were rules. Invisible ones. Ones I never agreed to. If I didn’t reply in time, she’d say she had to stay at the club. Or worse, that they told her not to come if I hadn’t answered. I realised then — the club had taken something from her. Her independence. Her confidence. Her right to decide where she wanted to be. I thought I’d given her a space to grow. But they rewrote the rules behind my back. --- This could be one of the most powerful scenes in your story — not just about the end of visits, but how the power to visit was taken from her.
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Chapter: Cutting the Cord

 In 2022, I made a decision that might seem unusual in today’s digital age: I cancelled every single streaming service I had — Sky, Netflix, the lot — and I haven’t looked back since. At the time, I was living alone. Originally, I’d set up the Sky box and various streaming subscriptions for Josephine, so she'd have her favourite shows when she visited. Josephine’s own home didn’t have any pay TV at all — just the local Irish channels and stations from the Wales regional UK broadcasts. It made sense then to provide something extra when she was here, to help her feel at home and entertained. But once Josephine stopped coming — thanks in large part to the influence and control of the Special Olympics club — the entire setup felt unnecessary. There was no reason to keep paying for services that served no purpose anymore. So I pulled the plug. I went back to basics: the free TV channels, and my trusty old video/DVD player. It didn’t take long to realise how much peace came from that sma...
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Chapter X: Still Waiting – The Silence from HQ

Chapter X: Still Waiting – The Silence from HQ P.S. Still no word back from HQ. It’s been weeks since we raised concerns about athletes pushed into payday loans, skipping meals to afford club fees, and facing isolation for not being part of the “right” club. We didn’t ask for praise. We asked for oversight, fairness, and compassion. But HQ didn’t ask questions. They didn’t even reply. And maybe that’s the most telling part of all. So we kept going. Sharing our story. Posting. Writing. Talking. Because someone has to. This isn’t about medals or PR. It’s about people — like Josephine — who should never have to choose between a sandwich and a sporting dream. Silence won’t stop us. We’re still here. Still speaking. Still waiting. --- Also added to the Advocacy Chapter: After our open letter, our emails, and the support we received online, we had hoped HQ would respond — even just to acknowledge what so many families and athletes have endured. But no word came. Not a phone call, not an emai...
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The Cost of Belonging

It still makes me shake my head. I was good enough to be Josephine’s reference when she applied to join Special Olympics. I filled out the form, signed it with pride, and stood behind her every step of the way. But not long after, when she needed help paying for a trip to the Games, I was told I wasn’t "Blue Dolphin." That meant I couldn’t be trusted to give her a few euros toward the cost. That same club, the one that preached inclusion and community, had no problem turning a blind eye when she took out a payday loan to cover the trip. 170% interest. €45 a week out of her welfare payment. For weeks, I watched that loan eat away at her finances and her health. All just so she could wear their colours at the Games. In the end, I stepped in and cleaned the debt with €500 of my own money. Not because I had it to spare—but because she didn’t have anyone else. This wasn’t an isolated incident. It was a sign of something deeper. Somewhere along the way, the Blue Dolphins Club stopp...
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Final Chapter Somewhere Between the Waiting and the Silence

Final Chapter Somewhere Between the Waiting and the Silence There are days—quiet ones, mostly—when I catch myself wondering if any of it really happened. If William and Josephine were real. If the house fire in Bray, the visits, the care packages, the tears in the hallway, ever existed outside of my mind. My mother died in October 2003. That’s when everything stopped. I remember that first winter without her—how the house didn’t feel like home anymore, how silence settled into the walls like dust. After the funeral, the world just slowed. I waited for the death certificate, for the insurance letters, for some sign that life would pick up again. But nothing moved. The phone barely rang. The days blurred. Everything was stuck—grief caught between memory and paperwork. And so, somewhere in that long stillness, something stirred. William came first. I don’t know if I dreamt him one night or imagined him during one of those long walks I used to take just to get out of the house. He was grie...
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The Empty Chair (2008–2012)

By 2008, Josephine’s life had taken on a new rhythm, one shaped largely by her growing involvement in the Special Olympics club. Her days became busier, more structured, and less her own. While I was proud of the confidence she had found, I also noticed the subtle changes creeping in—how the visits we once took for granted now required permission, coordination, or were quietly dropped altogether. We still planned dinners, still hoped for normality. But on the days Josephine didn’t come over as planned, her plate remained untouched. The food didn’t go to waste, though. Instead, it found its place out in the front garden, laid carefully on an old, rusted tin tray that had long since lost its shine. That tray became a fixture, sitting just under the hedge where it wouldn’t draw attention but could still be found. In the daylight, the birds came first—sparrows, robins, sometimes the odd blackbird—all picking gently at the meal that never made it to the table inside. But it was in the deep ...
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