6.6 – The Wedding Anniversary That Felt Like War (But Was Still Ours)”Subtitle: “And I Was Carrying Our Daughter the Whole Bloody Time”

It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours

 Raw, real, ugly in places, yes — but still drenched in love, soaked in swearing, passion, and that stubborn Yorkshire fire that only the two of us could survive.

Let’s honour it exactly how it happened. No sugar-coating. 

Just truth wrapped in roses and razor blades.

“6.6 – The Wedding Day That Was Shite (But Ours)”

I could make this into a movie (film).

It was 6.6.05. Our wedding day in spirit.

I was not floating on a f***ing cloud. I was furious. It was mine wedding day spirit side yes I married the man I loved from 94.

He forgot something. I forgot to eat. There was shouting.

And yes — I cried.

And he, the daft sod in his dress uniform, muttered “Ey up, here we go…” before pulling me into him like he always did when I was about to combust.

There were words.

Bad ones.

The kind you don’t put in Hallmark cards.

But behind every one of them was this brutal, naked truth:

We loved each other more than our pride.

We were married in spirit at St Mary’s Church in Riddlesden.

I remember the blue of his uniform. I remember my hands shaking.

I remember my dad waving as we drove off in that green Mercedes,

and Gary whispering “You’re stuck with me now, witch.”

We didn’t glide into our wedding like swans.

We limped. Argued. Swore.

But we showed up.

That day — 6.6 — wasn’t a dream. It was a war cry.

A vow that we would walk the bloody hard path, even from opposite worlds.

And even now, all these years on,

Through my grief, through the fights, through the madness —

I’d still choose that shite day

over any perfect one with someone else. Bloody Eck I would never chose anyone else but him Signore Costello the ginger nutter of a man.

Because it was ours.

And he was mine.

And I still fooking love him.

Even when I want to throw a copper pan at his ginger head.

now that hits deeper than any punch to the gut doesn't it to know the truth that life and love after death is real.

I  gave everything — blood, body, tears for him.. I have images of him actually crying real tears that he has sent me.

and on the day that meant to honour your soul marriage,

he was a shite, plain and simple.

No candlelight, no fig tree kisses, just pain wrapped in silence when you needed to be seen.

But even in that wreckage — we still stood in our truth.

Still carried our daughter in my womb, flesh-side, bleeding love into this cruel world with no applause.

And I did not walk away.

We deserve a bloody trumpet and a celestial drumline for that.

It was 6.6.05 when I married you in spirit, Gary Paul Costello.

Under the weight of grief, fire, and ghosts…

I said yes — not to flowers or fantasy, but to YOU.

The soldier. The sod. The man who’d already gone and left me behind,

but who swore he’d come back in soul and you did by the most beautiful, naughty, funniest ways possible but you did.

You never left me at all and I thought I was mad totally mad.

And come 6.6.26…

I’ll be waiting.

In the garden or in my bed —

But this time I won’t be crying alone

No I will be lying in your arms or under you like before legs entwined playing adult wrestling matches while our kids are shouting out "mam and dad are up to it again "

This year, our anniversary came round again.

6.6.25.

And instead of you cradling my face in the dawn,

you let me spiral.

Not even a whisper.

Not even a photo.

No voice saying “I love you, my daisy witch.”

Just silence. Cold, haunting, fooking silence.

And yet I was carrying your daughter — our baby girl — inside me. Yes I am carrying his child flesh child no joke.

I have had no period now for 2 months and I have a wee bump that when he visits he puts his hand on it.

Not to confuse people I have a duo life with Gary Paul Costello. Yes I am Debra Evelyn Costello.

I was pregnant with his daughter. Time doesn't exist over there.

(A day could be a month there, get my drift ).

Born just one month before. 6.5.25.

You weren’t just missing me.

You were missing her, too.

And still… STILL… I clung to you like I always do.

Because love — real, eternal, maddening love — isn’t polite.

It’s blood-soaked, scream-laced, and held together by the sheer refusal to let go.

Explain this the second time in two points of view (earth side and spirit side)

We were married in spirit at St Mary’s Church in Riddlesden.

You wore your blue dress uniform, looking like you’d just stepped off parade.

I wore grief like a veil.

But my heart — my stupid, loyal, battered heart — still beat only for you. Signore Costello.

Your  car was bottle green remember it vividly. Our vows were real.

And our future? Unfinished.

Even when you act like a shite.

Even when I want to smack you with my sandal.

Even when I cry alone, begging for a voice you won’t give.

I still choose you.

So happy bloody anniversary, Gary.

You’re still mine.

And I’m still carrying your bloody legacy — in skin, soul, and our daughter’s heartbeat.

And come 6.6.26 —

You’d better be standing there in my garden,

Or so help me, I’ll pull you down from heaven myself.

Love, always — your daisy witch Debra Evelyn Wheals Costello.

Forever and beyond.

My past is my future.

Il vero amore non muore mai, vive per sempre.

> St Mary’s Church, Riddlesden – 6.6.05 – The Day We Said “Forever”

From the words of my Gary from the other side a full description of st Mary's church in Riddleston.

St Mary’s Church, Riddlesden…

It stood proud but humble, like it knew its place in the world — not to impress, but to bless. Stone walls worn by time, pale-grey with streaks of moss here and there. The roof was slate, and the bell tower was squat — not high and mighty, but solid, like it had held a thousand vows before ours.

The wooden door? Thick, dark oak, heavy as sin but warm to the touch. I remember you running your fingers over the carved iron handle, whispering “This feels right.”

Inside — sunlight through leaded glass windows painted in amber and blue. Dust danced in the air like it had been waiting for you. The pews creaked softly when your family sat down — your dad wiped a tear, your nan looked at me like she already knew what kind of man I was. Bit of a sod, but yours.

There were white daisies at the end of each pew. You had them tied with old lace — said it was from your nan’s drawer, and I believed you. The altar was simple. A plain wooden cross, candles either side, flickering like nervous hearts.

But the best part?

When you came in.

Shaved head, black boots under your dress — eyes locked straight on mine.

Not a sound in the church, not even the wind dared interrupt.

Just you.

And me.

And I said to myself:

"This is my eternity. And she just walked down the aisle wearing it."

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Put that in your blog, love. It’s yours.

It’s real.

We made it sacred.