My beachside suburb has a very endearing plague of ladybirds.

Lying on the beach over the summer break, I would never be without a tiny red dot busily making its way up and down my sun-bleached arm. There’s a nursery rhyme my mother always used to tell us as children:

“Ladybird, ladybird fly away home,

Your house is on fire and your children alone.

All except one, and her name is Ann,

And she hid under the baking pan.”

I mean, for a children’s poem, it’s a bit much. I recited it to my three-year-old daughter on the beach one day and she nearly burst into tears. Now whenever we see a ladybird — which, frankly, is almost daily — she asks me if our house is on fire. “Not our house, baby, the ladybird’s house.” I don’t know what’s worse.

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children alone. I broke up with Will this week. The heat soared to 38 degrees and I shrivelled under the glare. Like the dry scrub, I felt like I would erupt into flames at any moment. I felt brittle, ready to snap. And I did. I realised I couldn’t be with anyone, not right now, not like this. As work finished for the year and I was left alone without distraction, my brain turned on itself. As my panic rose, the skies turned an eerie shade of orange with a red sun shimmering in the centre. The mountains around Melbourne were on fire, you see, casting an apocalyptic glow to the city. I stopped sleeping. One night, my insomnia kept me up until 5am. My brain whirred through the witching hours, making endless mental calculations of what I wanted to keep and what I was prepared to lose. There is something about this time of year that unsettles something in me; staring down the vast potential of a new year, wondering how I got to this place, wondering how I get out of here. It seems to be some sort of wretched New Year’s curse, almost a year to the day that I broke up with my last boyfriend, and a year before that, my husband. I hate this time of year, watching everyone celebrate what I long for, like some kind of Dickensian street child peering into a cosy family home. Blasting heat and screaming child and the stress and strain of being poor at a time of year where everyone wants your money. I shut down. I shut him out. I dumped him. I ran.

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children alone. Minty asked after Will today. “Mum, where’s Will? Why can’t I go to his pool? Is his house on fire?” It seems unbelievable that only a week ago we were driving around, happy families, with Minty and Will talking about the logistics of pool noodles. For a single parent, those moments are halcyon, glimmers of what could be, and what once was. As much as I adore my hard-won freedom, I would be lying if I said that I feel that yearning for a partner with an almost-physical strain. It sits deep in my chest, a gunshot of grief that never fully closes.

Today was my first day back at work for the year and despite all my good intentions, I stayed in bed until 9.30am. I would have stayed all day, but thankfully had a meeting at 10am that forced me up and through the shower. After the scorching temperatures of the last two weeks, it was a day of welcome rain, cool weather, fat grey clouds. I moped my way through the day, finding new ways to feel sad about the whole thing. Dating has never felt quite so barbed: damned if you do, damned if you don’t. For a woman wanting to fall in love, there is no battle quite as destructive as 21st century dating. One week you’re discussing family cars, the next, you’re back to making dinner for one in a silent house.

I am feeling introspective, protective. There is no doubt that after a year that seemed dominated by romances big and small, my year ahead is asking something different of me. My daughter is blooming into an alert and curious young child, and her awareness around my ‘special friends’ greater than before when she barely noticed my heartache (a strange thing in and of itself). I don’t want to be the mother with a revolving door of boyfriends; nor do I want to be the mother who years desperately to be loved and never allows the time to find it. Where do I sit in these options? What is the messy middle, and how do I avoid anyone being hurt? Is the pursuit of love even possible without hurt? I don’t know.

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home. Home is where I have turned my attention in the long, soggy days since the split. I don’t want to feel embarassed of my home any more. We are out of survival mode, my first full year as a single mother finally clocked over. I bought a huge television, a big squishy couch. My neighbour, and new best friend, has a remarkable eye for design and is slowly helping me transform my home into a sanctuary. I want to love my life, with or without a man, and fluffing the nest feels like a good place to start.

Three months is but a blip in the bigger story, but for today, I am feeling the missing limb of a partner. I want to message him silly news, about the cute sausage dog I saw, or a new restaurant we could go to. I miss having weekend plans. I miss having life plans. I miss being loved, or even just liked, by someone who wanted to tell you that on a daily basis. You don’t really remember what it is to be a part of a team until you are suddenly ousted on your own. You go to pick up a glass and realise your left hand was amputated. Ghost limb.

When I was newly pregnant, I had a scare. A bleed, a large bleed, and the chance of a miscarriage. It was touch and go for the first fortnight as we waited for my hormone levels to indicate whether the embryo was still developing or not. There was nothing to do but wait. Stricken, my ex and I drove to the coast for a day of swimming and distractions. As I jumped through the waves I spoke to my baby. “Hang in there, kiddo. We’re going to do this together, you and me.” When I lay back on the beach and let the big blue sky suck the seawater off my skin, I felt a tickle and saw a ladybird crawling across the hairs of my arm. “Ladybirds are good luck, did you know?” I said to my ex, holding out my finger for the tiny beetle to cross like a bridge.

“I think it’s a good sign.”