For Better, For Worse—And For Every Messy Bit In Between By Zoe – aka The ADHD Hook, proud wife of a man who laughs at his own jokes and loves me through mine

 

They don’t make movies about love like ours.

There’s no neat montage. No perfectly-timed kisses in the rain. Just two imperfect people, navigating life with ADHD, trauma, healing, a mountain of laundry, and a house full of emotional plot twists, three gremlins we’re raising, and one beautiful young adult who’s finding her own way in the world. It’s not always pretty—but it’s ours. And it’s bloody incredible.

At first, I didn’t think he knew how to love.

Not because he was cruel—but because he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t throw words like knives or slam doors for attention. He was just... calm. Quiet. A simple man who found joy in the little things. And that confused the hell out of me.

I thought love was supposed to be intense. Explosive. Painful, even. That’s what I grew up around. So when he showed up with his kind eyes and steady presence, I genuinely thought, “Where’s the catch?”

But then I saw him with his daughter.

The way he looked at her like she was the sun. The way he listened—really listened. The way he showed up every single day, no fanfare, no drama, just love.

That’s when I fell. And I fell hard.

But even then—I kept him at arm’s length.

I was terrified he’d figure out I wasn’t wife material. That I was a human glitter bomb of chaos with unresolved trauma, executive dysfunction, and a slight tendency to sob over spilled food. So I pushed myself. Hard. Got up early. Made his lunch. Washed his clothes. Juggled the kids. Tried to be this perfect domestic goddess even though my brain was quietly imploding.

And still, I’d fail the imaginary “wife test” I made up in my head.

I’d forget the sandwich filling. I once dropped a full pan of enchiladas on the floor and cried into it. Like, full on, nose-running, can’t-breathe sobbing—into a puddle of cheesy tortilla mush. And this was all before we realised there was something not quite right with my brain.

Though deep down? I already knew.

I knew I wasn’t wired the same. I knew I was never going to be the tidy, tidy, tidy housewife Pinterest dreams are made of. I knew I’d forget birthdays, mix up appointments, and live in a permanent state of “what the hell was I just doing?”

But I also knew I was trying.

And he saw that too.

He never judged the weird relationship I had with my parents. He never made me feel like I had to cut ties before I was ready. Okay—he might’ve said, “Zoe, they treat you like shit,” once or twice. But he still held my hand through every heartbreak. Every breakdown. Every awkward family event where I wanted to scream.

He was the twat in tinfoil who saved my life more than once.

Not a knight in shining armour. Something better. A real human who knows how to fix a broken cupboard with duct tape and who brings me snacks when I’ve hit burnout mode. The man who sits next to me in silence when I’m spiralling, no pressure, just presence.

He didn’t make my boys, but you wouldn’t know it.

He showed up. Not as some replacement or pretender—but as the kind of man who teaches by example. Who gives hugs, fixes broken toys, sits through meltdowns, and never once made them feel like they were “someone else’s kids.” And then we added Rosie to the mix—a beautiful chaos cocktail of a family—and he took it all in his stride.

He became their person too. The kind of stepdad that deserves a bloody medal—or at least a lifetime supply of earplugs and hot cups of tea he never gets to drink hot.

He has loved me through every version of myself—especially the ones I didn't love.

He didn’t run when I unravelled. He didn’t flinch when I couldn’t hold it together. He didn’t expect me to be anything more than me—messy, honest, emotionally explosive, creative, and completely unpredictable.

And that’s why I wouldn’t want to do life with anyone else.

Because what we’ve built? It’s not perfect. It’s not polished. But it’s real. It’s weird. It’s covered in yarn, half-drunk Pepsi Max cans, toy explosions, and sarcastic one-liners.

So yeah, I might not be the textbook wife.

But lucky for me… Dave never studied for that test anyway.

And honestly?

If love is a battlefield, he’s the guy who showed up with a roll of gaffer tape, a half-eaten biscuit, and a terrible pun.

I asked him once what he’d do without me, and he said, “Probably sleep better… but I’d be miserable and hungry.”

That’s the kind of love we’ve got.

Messy. Deep. Ridiculous. And utterly unbreakable.

And I wouldn’t trade it for all the neat little lives in the world.

---

From Dave (Well... sort of. Zoe translated, because I was busy trying to sit down without being handed a baby or a wet wipe)

I’m not great with words—unless it’s a pun, a dad joke, or something wildly inappropriate whispered in Tesco.

But here’s the thing about Zoe…

She’s completely mental. Like, beautiful chaos wrapped in yarn and fire. And I bloody love her for it.

She thinks I stayed because she made my lunch and washed my socks. Nah. I stayed because she’s the only woman who can burn toast, cry about it, then laugh so hard she snorts Pepsi Max—and still somehow look like the hottest mess I’ve ever seen.

She’s loud, emotional, forgets where she put her phone while she's holding it, and once accused me of moving her crochet hook… that was in her hair.

She didn’t need saving. She just needed someone to hold her hand while she saved herself. I just turned up with snacks and sarcasm.

And then there was Turkey.

I had this whole plan, you know? Romantic. Thought-out. Subtle. I took her shopping, told her to choose a ring—was gonna do it all fancy later.

But no.

Before I could even breathe, she dragged me out onto the balcony, shoved the ring in my hand, and said, “Do it now.” No speech, no getting down on one knee in a candlelit restaurant—just me, standing in a pair of shorts, sweating on a balcony while the love of my life hijacked her own proposal.

But that’s Zoe.

You don’t plan with her. You adapt. You survive. You marry her before she proposes to herself.

And I would. Every time.

She didn’t just become my wife. She became my absolute chaos twin, the boss of the TV remote, the soft centre under all my sarcasm, and the best co-pilot in this weird, wild life we’ve built.

And the kids? Best thing that ever happened to me—along with Rosie the wild child and our household of gremlins. I didn’t make the boys, but I’m honoured to be the stepdad who gets to fix their crap, be their backup parent, and hear “Mum said no” about 57 times a day.

So yeah—I’d do it all again.

Every emotional tornado. Every meltdown. Every “have you seen my scissors?!” while they’re in her actual hand. Every balcony proposal ambush.

Because she’s not too much. She’s exactly right. For me.

And besides—if I ever left, she’d find me. I’ve seen her with a tracking number.

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Us, in a nutshell (or a padded cell… take your pick)

Zoe:

I knew he was the one when he didn’t flinch after I screamed at a sock for looking at me wrong.

Dave:

I knew she was the one when I realised she couldn’t make a sandwich properly, but she could rearrange an entire room at 3am because her "brain said so."

Zoe:

He thinks he’s funny. He’s not. But I let him believe it because love is about compromise.

Dave:

She says she loves me, but also once threw a tea towel at my head because I blinked too loud.

Zoe:

I told him I’d love him forever. He thought that meant I’d steal his hoodies and half his chips. He was right.

Dave:

I just wanted a quiet life. Instead, I got a wife, three kids, one teenager in orbit, a crochet empire, and a glitter-infused mental breakdown every Wednesday. Wouldn’t change a thing.

Zoe:

We argue about the thermostat, the washing, and where I put his keys (which are always in his pocket).

Dave:

We make it work with snacks, memes, emotional damage, and a solid understanding that if she says “I’m fine,” I’m not.

Zoe & Dave:

It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s weird.

But it’s us.

And it works.

(…most of the time.)