Sitting up in bed, I saw my fiancé Mo, then 39, pulling a T-shirt over his head as he hopped around in the dark.
Trying - and failing! - to be quiet.
‘What are you doing?’ I hissed, glancing at the clock, bleary eyed.
It was just after 10am on a Sunday in July 2019.
'Popping out to get ice cream for an event later,’ he grinned.
Smiling, I sank back onto my pillow.
Typical Mo.
Always a grafter.
We'd been together since 2013, but were friends years before that.
I had an interior-design business while Mo owned a wine bar, restaurants and ice cream vans.
We had lots in common.
Business-minded, family-orientated, and both loved a good giggle!
Mo had four kids from a previous relationship, and two lived with us.
Hearing his car pull out of the drive, I snuggled down in the duvet and dozed off.
But moments later, I was jolted awake by an explosion of noise.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Then the sound of heavy footsteps thumping up our stairs.
Suddenly, a
