Even if it no longer exists in the same way
The other day I saw a reel from a separated father talking about his daughter. He said that one of the things he intentionally does is compliment her by comparing her to her mother. He talks about her hair and says it’s beautiful like her mum’s. Or tells her she has the same smile. He said that whenever he does that, his daughter’s face changes. Into something he had never seen before. Or hadn’t seen in a very long time. As if something inside her finally settled.
It stayed with me.
Because I’ve seen that same look in my oldest son too. That special light that appears whenever he feels there is still affection between me and his father. As if, for a few seconds, the world goes back to where it belongs.
I notice it in small things. When I’m talking about people I love and mention his dad. When I say, “let’s make a drawing for Daddy.” When we’re all together laughing at the same thing. When I hug him while his father is beside us. Or when I extend that hug to his dad too. Or when we all dance together in the living room to children’s songs. When, for a few moments, we look like the family we used to be.
It’s true. His whole face lights up instantly.
His eyes change. Softer. Calmer. As if there’s a quiet hope inside him that wakes up every time he feels closeness between us.
And what’s even more incredible is that I’ve felt this with my youngest too, even though he’s only one year old.
A few days ago we were dancing together in the living room. Children’s music playing, laughter, clumsy little dance moves, toys scattered all over the floor. And suddenly he walked towards us, took my hand and then his father’s. He still can’t speak, but through his gestures he asked us for something very simple: to hold hands. To dance together in a circle.
And we did.
For a few seconds we stayed there, holding hands, the four of us dancing in the middle of the living room. And in that moment I felt such a tightness in my chest. Because I realised that even that tiny little boy feels it too. He also looks for togetherness. He also lights up when he feels love between us.
And at the same time that all of this makes me happy… it also breaks my heart.
Because for those few seconds I can almost forget everything else too. I can imagine how easy it would be to go back in time. Before the pain. Before the lies. Before everything that brought us here.
But then reality returns.
And there are wounds that love for our children cannot completely erase. There are things that leave permanent marks. Things that, no matter how much we want them to, can no longer be rebuilt in the same way.
And maybe one of the hardest parts of separation is this: realising that our children are still searching for signs of love between us. Small signs. Small gestures. As if they are constantly looking for reassurance that their family still exists somehow.
And maybe it does. It just no longer exists in the way they wished it would. Or in the way I imagined for so many years.
But I’ve learned something recently: even when love ends, respect should not end with it. Neither should kindness. Especially when there are children involved.
Because children feel everything. They feel the tension. They feel the distance. But they also feel the care. The respect. The friendship. The small gestures.
And sometimes all it takes is a hug, a dance in the middle of the living room or bedroom, or a kind word about the other parent for us to watch a child completely light up in front of us.
As if, for a moment, their heart could finally rest again.
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