When the night is no longer guaranteed, and sharing hurts more than the separation.
Learning to live without him already felt hard. But yesterday I realized the worst hasn’t even begun. It’s not just his absence that I’ll have to learn to endure. It’s the absence of my children. And that takes my breath away.
When they were born, I never once imagined I’d have to learn to live entire days without seeing them – especially now, when they can’t even dress themselves yet.
It never crossed my mind that one day I’d have to share half of their lives. That there would be nights without bedtime stories. Mornings without sleepy kisses. Days without feeling the weight of their bodies asleep on mine. They’re so little… and it hurts so much to imagine everything I’m going to miss…
Some first times. Some discoveries. I’ll be there – but not always.
The other day, a friend who separated a few years ago, but has since found her way back home, told me that one of the hardest things for her was the day her daughter turned two and she wasn’t there. She wasn’t the first to give her a birthday kiss. Tears streamed down my face instantly just imagining it.
Accepting that the love of my life is gone, that he has left on a journey with no return, has been a painful road. But learning to live in a house without my children… that’s unbearable – and it hasn’t even happened yet.
They call it shared custody. They say mother and father have equal rights. That it’s the same. And I believe that, in the long run, it may be. But how do you explain that to a baby crying for their mother in the dark? How do you explain that to a mother who knows she’s just a few meters away… and can’t go? They say children adapt—and I know they do. Children adapt to almost anything. But at what cost?
My youngest has slept with me since he was born. He falls asleep with me – still nursing, or in my arms. He still wakes up during the night looking for my embrace. My oldest asks for my hand every night so he can close his eyes. And I’ve always been there. Always. I’ve been the constant in their lives.
Imagining my children crying in a house where I’m not, when I could be, is a pain that hasn’t even happened yet – but it’s already consuming me.
I don’t want them to lose their father. I never did. I’ve always encouraged every moment between them. Always. And I will continue to do so. But when night falls, they stay with me. It’s my arms they look for. It’s my scent they recognize in the dark.
Maybe one day this will be different. Maybe one day I’ll be able to take a deep breath and accept shared custody without feeling like I’m losing pieces of myself. But today? Today I’m still learning how to survive the idea of a house without them. And no one ever taught me how to do that…
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