One day, which I don’t remember, he left.
On another day, which I don’t remember, our family was divided in two.
Yet another day, which I also don’t remember, the love between them ended. Forever.
“Divorced, with two daughters?”
“Divorced, without the two daughters?”
Being a daughter of divorced parents is like watching a soccer match between your favorite team and your home team. Routing for a friendly draw, without injuries or disappointments. It doesn’t matter what place they are in. You will want a draw, because the victory of one is always the defeat of the other.
But it wasn’t always like this. There were years of my life that I followed very closely the games they disputed. Pikes, moved by everything that you feel when love dies. Until I discovered that not living through them allowed impartiality.
I was never against her because of him and I never loved him less because of her. When I reached adulthood, which they were waiting to tell me old disagreements, I decided not to listen. Not wanting to know. Their past is not mine or ours. We are a result, an extension of a love that once existed. That’s all I care to know.
Being in the middle of a divorced couple is a challenge for everyone. And by everyone I mean the two families, who were having fun on the wedding of these two. Who didn’t live happily ever after, together. We, my sister and I, were very lucky. Our two families were impartial, tireless and generous in love. Each family cheered for their party, but voted and protected those two girls, of four and seven years old, who knew nothing about life. We grew in this synchrony, we followed the path they gave us and we created the best double memories. My parents also carried on with their lives, with us under their arms. We won a stepfather and a stepmother. Without attributing the disparaging sense that these words, for some reason, carry. (Let’s blame Disney movies and children’s books, where the stepmother is always evil and the stepfather doesn’t exist. It doesn’t apply our case, at all). It was innocently that I accepted them and cataloged them in the role they played in my life. Neither of them were a replacement of my mother or father.
I knew that.
They knew that.
Even if their heart had been filled again, the dispute for us didn’t give respite. The judge decided that by reaching adulthood we could choose our own path. Changing a fourteen year rules, at the age of eighteen? Too late, inevitably our relationships were drawn. I could only hold my sister’s hand and convince her that it was only love that existed between us all. Even mixed with other confusing feelings.
Several times I heard my mother screaming that the monthly check covered the food but barely enough for laundry detergent. Several times I heard my father complaining about how little time he spent with us, as if two weekends a month was enough. Both followed rules imposed by any judge. Both followed rules that would never follow if their love had not dried. Both with the power to change them, both didn’t. It was against the law.
However, they did the best they could and knew.
Today, I know that the divorce was the best future they gave us. Free from suffered memories, false notions, traumas and hatreds. I rather not have memories of wars and sorrows than to know the real definition of what a broken home is. The lack of love translates lack of consideration, respect and prudence. I only recognize that because I lived one and not because my parents are divorced. My love failure didn’t result in children. And if a breakup hurts, I can’t even conceive the pain of an end of marriage with two children.
Because they made the right decision, at the ideal time, I don’t know what it is to live without love.
Because they made the right decision, I still believe in marriage, family, and fairy tales. Where stepmothers and stepfathers are welcome.
Because they got divorced, we are all so much happier. In our awkwardness, sarcastic humor and goofiness, but extremely happy.
For all of this, I thank you both.
Comments are closed.