REWRITING FAMILY

It’s feeling alone even when he is still there

I’m still at home with my youngest son. He is sick. Slower days. More cuddles. More comfort. Cartoons playing softly in the background while I try to work between tiny interruptions, toys scattered everywhere and constant calls for “mummy”.

Yesterday, at the end of the afternoon, I had to go out with him to sort something out for our building. One of those practical adult things his dad used to deal with. Now it was me. And when we got back home, he didn’t want to go inside. He wanted to walk around with me a little longer. So we went to the playground between our house and his brother’s school.

Since it was almost pickup time, I called his dad, who was collecting our oldest, to ask where they were. On their way. I asked if they wanted to meet us at the park. They did.

And there was a moment there that left a strange heaviness in my chest.

As soon as my oldest arrived, he ran straight to me. He wanted me to hold him. At the same time, my youngest, who had gone over to his dad, immediately came back to me too. And suddenly I had both of them clinging to my legs. Both crying. Both pulling at me. Both pushing each other because they each wanted to be the one in mummy’s arms.

And I stood there. In the middle of both of them. Alone.

I think that was what hurt the most.

Because before the separation, I never felt alone in moments like this. Tired sometimes, of course. Overwhelmed too. But not alone.

Before, there was someone beside me. Someone who would pick one of them up without needing to be asked. Someone who noticed the chaos before it exploded. Someone who helped. Someone who felt like part of the team. Someone who could look at me and immediately see that I needed help.

Yesterday, that didn’t happen.

Yesterday, he sat further away.

And maybe anyone watching from the outside wouldn’t even think it looked strange. After all, he was there. Physically present. But emotionally he felt so far removed from all that chaos. As if those two little boys desperately crying for comfort were only my responsibility. As if motherhood was still technically shared… but the emotional weight of it no longer was.

And maybe that is one of the loneliest parts of co-parenting after separation.

It’s not just the physical absence on the days we are alone with the children. It’s the emotional absence even when the other parent is still standing beside us.

It’s realizing that we still carry the crying, the guilt, the emotional conflicts, the children’s emotional needs… almost always alone. Even when, technically, we are still supposed to be “a parenting team”.

On the walk home, it was the same. My oldest wanted to be carried too. My youngest, sick and exhausted, would only calm down in my arms. Both crying. Both pulling at me. And I felt literally torn in half.

I asked for help. But there are requests that hurt precisely because they should never have to be asked.

At one point he tried to take the youngest so I could carry his brother. It didn’t work. The baby only wanted his mum. And I realized that, in that moment, he needed me more. I explained that to my oldest. I told him that when he had chickenpox, I had stayed by his side the whole time too. That now it was his little brother who needed more cuddles. But that I loved them both exactly the same.

Even so, I felt this huge ache in my chest when I heard him ask his dad to carry him… and be told no. Apparently he is already old enough to walk home by himself.

And then came the part that truly broke me.

We walked past the car.

The car that had been ours for years. The car where we sang children’s songs on repeat until exhaustion. Where there were road trips, conversations, arguments, crumbs on the floor and entire pieces of our lives lived inside it. An early wedding gift. And now it is “dad’s car”.

We had already explained that to him before. And usually he called it that too.

But yesterday he looked at me and asked:

“Mummy… this is our car, isn’t it?”

And immediately I knew he already knew the answer. And that this wasn’t about the car. It was about us. About trying to understand whether there are still things that belong to all of us. About searching for small proof that his family still exists somewhere, even in the middle of separation.

In that moment, I couldn’t tell him no. I just said:

“Yes, love. It’s ours.”

And he smiled. A calm smile. Almost relieved. And he kept walking happily, as if he had just confirmed that there are still intact pieces left of his world.

And maybe that is what children so often do after separation: they search for small things that still make them feel like they all belong to the same story. Even when the adults already know that story has changed forever.