REWRITING FAMILY

(Some kinds of pain take us back to the only place where we still know how to be someone’s child)

The first time my children spent an entire day with their father after the separation was on a Saturday. We had decided to split the weekend. He would have them on Saturday. I would have them on Sunday. It sounded simple. In theory, almost everything sounds simple.

We agreed to meet at a park halfway between our homes. Today, I know that was a mistake. We should have done it differently. He should have picked them up from home and taken them to the park. They would have left happy. No difficult goodbyes. No moment where a family breaks apart right in front of their own children. But we were still learning. We still are.

When he arrived at the park, we all played together for a little while. The boys ran around. Laughed. Kicked footballs. And for a few minutes it almost felt like nothing had changed.

Then the moment came. That moment. The one I had been dreading. My oldest son started asking questions. The kind of questions adults never really know how to answer.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Why aren’t you coming too?”

“When will you come back?”

My youngest didn’t ask anything. He cried. He ran after me. He shouted, “Mummy, mummy”. And I smiled. I think it was one of the greatest efforts of my life. I smiled at both of them. I smiled to tell them, without words, that everything was okay. I smiled to lend them a courage I didn’t even have myself. I said goodbye. I turned around. And the exact second I could no longer see them, the smile disappeared. I started crying uncontrollably. I didn’t look back. Not once. Because I knew that if I saw them crying behind me, I wouldn’t be able to keep walking. And because I didn’t want them to see me like that. I didn’t want the last image of that moment to be their mother falling apart.

I got home without really knowing how. And when I opened the door, my mother was there. Waiting for me. Tidying something. Pretending everything was normal. The way mothers do when they know their children are about to collapse. I remember walking in. I remember seeing her. And I remember falling. Literally. I threw myself onto the floor and cried. I cried in a way I hadn’t cried for many years. Maybe in a way I hadn’t cried since I was a child.

I stayed there. Lying on the floor. Without strength. Without dignity. Unable to pretend everything was okay. Eventually, I traded the floor for the sofa. And that’s when something happened that I never expected. I ended up back in my mother’s arms. I’m in my thirties. I’m the mother of two children. I pay bills. I make difficult decisions. I solve problems. I take care of people. But in that moment, I was none of those things. I was simply someone’s daughter. I rested my head on her lap. And I cried. For hours. Without explanations. Without filters. Without needing to be strong. I simply cried.

Before the separation, when the boys’ father spent time with them so I could rest a little, I actually enjoyed it. It felt good. I used the time to catch up on things. To breathe. To be alone. But this was different. There is a huge difference between letting go because we choose to and having to let go because we have no choice. A huge difference between encouraging their relationship with their father and realising that we can no longer be there for half of their lives.

And that is what broke me that day. It wasn’t the silence in the house. It was their absence inside that silence. My mother understood. She didn’t try to fix it. She didn’t tell me it would pass. She didn’t ask me to be strong. She did something better. She stayed. And later, when I couldn’t bear being trapped between four walls any longer, she convinced me to leave the house.

My mother has flat feet. She doesn’t like walking. She has always complained about long walks. She has always been the first person to ask, “How much farther?” But that day she walked with me. Miles and miles. And then more miles. Without a single complaint. Without saying once that she was tired. Without suggesting we turn around. She stayed beside me until the very end. And I know that if she had needed to, she would have kept walking until there was no road left. Just so I wouldn’t have to walk that path alone.

Some people save us without even realising it. That day, it was her. My mother. Who held me up when I couldn’t stand. Who offered me a lap when I no longer knew where to put my pain. Who walked beside me when I thought I couldn’t take another step. And maybe that’s what mothers do for their entire lives. Even when their children grow up. Even when their children have children of their own. Even when they are adults. They are still there. Waiting. With their arms open. Just in case one day we need to come back.