real life
Kerrylyn John, 45, was so proud of her husband Ronan’s military past, until a horrendous incident revealed the truth…
You look shattered,” a voice beside me said as I spooned some soup into a bowl. “I am,” I replied. “But we’re nearly done now.” Ronan and I were both volunteering at a homeless shelter and we’d been serving food all evening. There had been an immediate spark between us and we became good friends.
I was intrigued by his background. He told me he’d been adopted and had spent his early years in Ireland, before moving to the UK where he’d joined the RAF as a combat medic. But for all his toughness, there was something fragile about Ronan that drew me in. I found myself falling for him, but I wanted to take things slowly as I was a single mum of two and my kids were my priority. Ronan understood and he bought me gifts, and had flowers delivered to my door.
As we grew closer, he confided in me about his time in the Forces. “I watched my best friend get blown to pieces,” he told me. “Somehow, I survived the attack, but there was nothing I could do. He was gone.” His eyes filled with tears as he told me he suffered with PTSD as a result. I just wanted to care for him.
Eventually, I introduced him to my kids, and they all got on brilliantly. But there were parts of Ronan’s past that didn’t add up. One night, as we snuggled up on the sofa to watch TV, I said, “So how come you’ve got a Welsh accent? I thought you were adopted from Ireland.” “I was only 11 when I came over to Wales,” he explained. “I guess my Irish accent just faded.” I knew not to push him on his childhood or his time in the RAF, in case I triggered a horrible memory, so I let it lie.
For four years we were happy. But one night, things took an unsettling turn. I woke up to find Ronan sitting bolt upright in bed. He was muttering under his breath, then he leapt up and began pacing the room, talking to himself in an Irish accent. “Ronan, what are you doing?” I said. Suddenly he launched himself back on to the bed and bundled me under the duvet. “We’re under attack! We have to hide from the enemy,” he ordered.
It was obvious he was experiencing a severe PTSD episode and it was really frightening. Eventually he fell asleep, and the next morning he couldn’t remember a thing. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “You need to see a doctor,” I told him. He took it on board, and I felt relieved when he told me a GP had prescribed him medication.
By the time Ronan proposed the following year, he seemed to have his demons under control. We tied the knot at a gorgeous manor house in my home town of Swansea, with 90 guests at the reception. Sadly,
