I often think back to our move from France to Spain with our two beautiful Labrador dogs.

I had planned everything carefully. One of our Labradors was elderly and struggling to walk, so I made sure our overnight hotel in Perpignan had a ground-floor room. I wanted the journey to be as comfortable and stress-free as possible for her.

Then he missed the motorway exit.

I noticed it immediately but said nothing. Years of living with an abusive partner had taught me that pointing out a mistake—even something as simple as a missed turning—could trigger an explosion of rage. Remaining silent felt safer than risking the inevitable verbal assault.

We left the motorway at the next exit and, by chance, ended up driving into a multi-storey car park.

Neither of my dogs had ever experienced anything like it.

The unfamiliar concrete floors, echoes and enclosed space terrified my elderly Labrador. She simply froze, sitting on the floor, unable to move.

Instead of seeing an old, frightened dog who needed reassurance, he reacted with anger.

He began shouting at her.

Calling her names.

Screaming at her to get up and walk.

The abuse poured out as if she had deliberately inconvenienced him.

There we were—me, my two beautiful Labradors and this humiliating public scene—while strangers looked on. I remember feeling that familiar knot in my stomach. The embarrassment. The helplessness. The desperate wish for it to stop.

This was supposed to be the beginning of our new life in Spain.

I had hoped that perhaps things would be different. Like so many people trapped in abusive relationships, I wanted to believe the promises. The fresh start. The idea that the move would somehow change him.

It didn’t.

Within hours of arriving, I realised I hadn’t left the abuse behind. I’d simply transported it across another border.

That moment in the car park wasn’t really about a missed motorway exit or an elderly dog who couldn’t walk. It was about control. His inability to regulate his emotions. His need to blame, intimidate and humiliate whenever something didn’t go according to plan.

The setting had changed.

The country had changed.

But the abuse hadn’t.

Looking back now, that car park became a symbol of everything that followed. The promises of change disappeared almost as soon as we crossed the Spanish border. The pattern simply repeated itself until, years later, I finally found the courage to walk away.

Sometimes the first chapter of a new adventure tells you everything you need to know.

I just wasn’t ready to believe it yet.