(because I’m still waiting for someone to tell me this didn’t actually happen)
I look at this Instagram page and sometimes I can’t believe it’s mine. I read these words. I read these texts. I read the comments. And it feels impossible that I wrote them. They must belong to someone else. Some woman who got separated. Who learned to live between two homes. Who cries when her children leave. Who talks about mediation, shared custody, missing them, rebuilding. Not me. Never me.
Sometimes I read my own texts like someone reading a borrowed book. Like I’m peeking into the life of a stranger. Because the truth is this: there is still a part of me waiting for someone to wake me up. To tell me it was just a nightmare. That none of this happened. That I’m still in that house as before. In that life. In that version of us. But then I meet someone. Someone who asks how I am. Someone who talks about the separation as a fact. Someone who mentions the days the kids are with their father. And reality crashes back onto me. Again.
It’s not a nightmare. This is my life. This page is mine. These words are mine. And this story comes from my heart.
Sometimes I think the brain does strange things to protect us. Because how do you accept a change like this overnight? How do you look at the person you were going to grow old with and accept that you won’t? How do you go from a full family to a shared calendar? How do you learn to live without half of your children’s days?
Maybe you don’t learn all at once. Maybe it doesn’t all land on the same day. Maybe it falls in pieces. First when he moves out. Then when the children sleep elsewhere. Then when we sign documents. Then when someone asks if we are better now. Then when we find an old photo. Then when we realize we don’t even know which is the family car anymore. Or the family home. Or even what family means now.
Sometimes I feel like I’m sitting in a cinema watching all of this unfold. I see the main character crying. I see her writing. I see her trying to be strong. I see her surviving. And for a few seconds I manage to convince myself it’s not me. Until my children call me. Until I walk into their room. Until I look at the empty side of the bed where he used to be. Until the silence arrives. And then there is no escape.
It is me. This is my story. And maybe the hardest part is not living it. Maybe the hardest part is accepting that it really happened. That there is no one behind the scenes about to shout “cut”. That there is no next scene where everything goes back to how it was. That the film keeps going. And I have to keep going with it. Even without knowing the ending yet.
But maybe there is something beautiful here. Because despite everything, I keep writing. I keep loving. I keep being a mother. I still laugh sometimes. I still believe that one day this story will hurt less. So if you want to take me out of this movie, do it quickly. Because I still haven’t gotten used to it. But if you can’t… then I hope I can at least learn to live inside this new version of the story. My story.
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