We relocated to a small town on the outskirts of Stockholm, situated on Lake Mälaren. It wasn’t the Sweden I’d pictured in my mind. It felt far away, or far back like some sort of time-capsule – industrial edges, and forests pressing in from every direction. I remember looking out the rain-streaked window as we drove from the airport to our new home, and seeing power infrastructure stretched across the landscape, as far as the eye could see, having outgrown its original purpose.

On weekends, my Dad would take me to see our local football team, up in Bromma. I knew it was his way of introducing some familiraty back in to our lives, but I also knew how much he was struggling with the night-shifts. Despite how tired I knew he was, though, he never let it show. For those 90-minutes, sitting there with our hot-chocolates in-hand, I was happy, and it did feel like the right choice.

Moving away from my friend’s and having to adjust to a new school was hard. I remember my first day vividly - how nervous I was that no one would like me, or that I’d never make new friends. In the end, no one was unkind to me. Everything sort of just carried on – which almost made it harder.

At first, my parents still felt like themselves. One of them would come home from work, and they’d stop for a moment in the hallway – just long enough for a kiss, and a few quiet words about their days. My mum would plate up some breakfast for my dad, and he would leave dinner warming in the oven for her. Small routines that held everything together.

Over time, those little moments they shared, got less. They didn’t argue, but something once there, had started to fade. They became like passing ships. A quick handover of car-keys and pained exchanging of smiles. I think at this point, they both knew. After a while, even the smiles stopped. The silence was the worst part. Our home had been the one place that felt familiar after the move, and now it felt empty.

School didn’t get easier overnight, but when I found out they were holding weekly trials for the football team, I signed straight up. At first, it was just a way to avoid going home. But over time it became something more - I started to make friends. We’d go to trials after school, and then head straight to a park after that, to play some more. I remember how worn down the grass was, the hard, cracked mud exposed below. There were no teams, no rules, just a ball.

Football became my constant.

All my free time was spent either playing football with my friends after school, or watching football with my Dad at the weekend. I remember one particular Sunday, the first signs of spring had begun to show. I stepped out on to the pitch and something happened, something felt different. The air felt heavier that day. Time seemed to slow down. The game started to make sense in a way that nothing else in life did. I sometimes still hear the humming-sound the school flood-lights made, the way they used to cut out all the external noise.

That summer, our school team won the district football tournament, where I got Player of the Tournament. I could feel my game developing. I was able to read play more quickly, see passing lanes before they fully opened up. I was able to react slightly quicker than everyone else.

My dad would come and watch me when he could. He’d tell me how much my composure and vision were improving each time he saw me play, and that my anticipation was so good that I’d probably already anticipated our conversation. To me, though, it was a feeling of being in-sync with something beyond my senses.

There had been an accident at the plant.

For a few seconds, I kept expecting the sentence to continue, like there had to be more after it. But it didn’t come. I remember asking her if he was alright, if he was hurt, and the way she just shook her head.

Everything felt different after that.

My Mum left the plant soon after. I never blamed her for that. We didn’t speak about what happened for a long time. The company handled everything quickly – insurance, support, all the practical stuff that adults have to force themselves to care about after something terrible happens.

And I turned to the only thing I could at the time, football. At first, as a distraction. Then because it was the only place where my thoughts seemed to settle. Every time I looked towards the sideline, part of me still expected to see him standing there in the cold, hands in his pockets, watching quietly as he always had. 

And even to this day, I play as if he still was.