I am a child of divorce. It hurt. I was caught in the middle of arguments that had nothing to do with me. I witnessed hatred up close. I was taken away from my father. I was deprived, broken. I suffered. For some people, divorce has no effect at all. For others, it leaves scars that last a lifetime. I’m one of those people.
Oh! Of course, I’ve never felt sorry for myself. Quite the opposite—I forged ahead. I promised myself I wouldn’t become that kind of mother. That cowardly mother who abandons her husband when things get too tough. That mother who thinks only of herself, the one who can’t bear to make the necessary efforts to steer the family ship back on course—all by herself.
I would rather be the one who carries all the pain in the world on her shoulders to spare her children the suffering of separation—that sense of not being understood, that pain, those moments of sorrow, anxiety, and feeling out of place. Yes. I swore to myself I’d do everything to spare them that. I promised them from their very first breath that WE would always be there for them, together. That we’d grow old hand in hand, overcoming the mountains that would stand before us. Because I’m not a coward. Because I’m strong and I can take it. That it’s not disagreements that scare me, and that I love with all my heart. Because I believe that love and kindness always triumph. I also believe that the more we love, the further we move away from failure. Because I don’t believe in hate and malice. Because maybe I’m naive.
And then, just like that, I got hit over the head with a brick. And a sledgehammer to boot. It was over. Eight years of love, three beautiful boys, millions of happy memories, as well as many ups and downs and misunderstandings—all sprinkled with countless compromises that led nowhere.
He shut the door on my promise to them. He shut the door on my perfect family. He shut his door on me—literally and figuratively.
I carried all the pain on my back. I endured words I shouldn’t have had to hear. I crawled on the floor to silence the arguments. I loved every inch of his body and mind passionately. I made excuses for his behavior. I made up for his disengagement. I worked twice as hard to keep things stable. I took care of each and every one of us. I believed it was my fault. I changed because of it. I always aspired to be better to please him. I worked more and harder. I blamed his absence on work and exhaustion. I tattooed his name on my heart. I etched his scent into my brain. I stamped his imprints on my body. I loved with all my soul despite my suffering. But in vain—I weep that it wasn’t enough. Love did not triumph.
My children will experience a separation. A slap in the face. My worst failure. My greatest fear.
Three weeks later. My head above water. A few pounds lighter. My hair still tangled from the storm’s aftermath. My breathing has slowed, and my heart is wounded by the needless pain we’ve inflicted on one another. With the help of the people who love me and believe in me. With the strength that has been within me since I first breathed, and with the love I receive—which continues to nourish my heart:
I promise them today that it won’t be painful. I promise them that I’ll do everything in my power to spare them. I also promise them that they’ll be safe and that they’ll have everything they need. I promise them that I’ll be even stronger and keep my anger in check. That I’ll continue to believe in love, even if it didn’t triumph in the last chapter. I promise them that Dad loves them. That Mom loves them more than anything. That, despite everything, they’ll be happy. I promise them an extraordinary future. Success, happiness, smiles, passions. I promise them the most beautiful life. I promise to be there. Standing tall. With open arms to listen to their sorrows, their joys, and their anger. I promise them all the love they deserve and inner peace. I promise them a healthy, happy mom to walk with them through every little storm in their long lives.
I’m getting back up once again. One last time. Once and for all. I’m getting back up for them. To walk tall. To move the mountains we must clear so our children can walk with their heads held high and swim in happiness.
Because I’m a mom. And they’re what I cherish most.
Anonymous