(it took me many months to understand what the real difference between us was)
This week was the end-of-year school celebration of our eldest son. I arrived alone. And it felt strange. Since he was born, I had always entered these places accompanied. This time I walked in not even knowing where to sit. I didn’t know if he had already arrived. Or if he was even coming. And I found myself looking around without really knowing what to do with my body, which at that moment was just that. A body. Empty. Waiting. Searching for a place where I wouldn’t feel so alone. The children hadn’t arrived yet. The chairs were slowly filling up. Fathers. Mothers. Grandparents. Siblings. Crossed conversations. Laughter. And me there. In the middle. Lost.
After a little while I heard someone calling me. It was my son’s best friend’s mother. I smiled. I sat next to her. And I silently thanked, in that moment, for not being alone. Meanwhile he arrived. He saw me. He came to ask if I had managed to deliver a piece of clothing our son needed for the performance. I told him yes. He smiled. And went to sit somewhere else. A few meters away from me. It was such a simple gesture. So normal. So expected. And yet it hurt. Because only a few months ago we used to sit side by side. We would quietly comment on the performances. We would make jokes at each other. Laugh at the kids’ nerves. Take photos together. This time not. This time there were two seats. His. And mine.
The performances began. First those from the other classes. Then our son’s. And I cried. But I cry about everything. I cry when I see happy children. I cry when I see pride. I cry when I see love. And in that courtyard there was so much of all of that. The kids danced as if they were on the biggest stage in the world. They looked for their parents with their eyes. They smiled when they found them. They waved. They forgot half the songs and choreographies because they were too busy making sure the most important people in their lives were there.
Until our son saw us. He jumped. Smiled. Called a friend. And pointed in our direction. “Look… my mum. And my dad” He didn’t say “my dad there” and “my mum here”. He said it as if we were still one thing. As if we still belonged to the same sentence. And for those seconds… that was true. For those seconds we were not a couple. But we were still his home.
When the performance ended they asked the parents to go to their children. As soon as he saw us, ours started running. He ran towards both of us. Not to me. Not to his father. To us. He opened his arms and hugged us both at the same time. And in that hug I understood something very simple. There are days when children don’t need their parents to love each other. They just need to feel that they can still love both at the same time.
Then we played a little. We ran. We laughed. And we decided to pick up the younger brother to go out for dinner. The four of us. It was the first time since the separation. Strange. Beautiful. Painful. All at the same time. There were moments when it felt like time had gone backwards. Others when just looking at the table was enough to realize nothing was the same anymore. But the kids were happy. And, in that moment, that was enough. When we got home, he stayed to bathe them. Tomorrow he will travel for work for a few days and wanted to make the most of every minute with them. He stayed until they fell asleep. And I liked that he stayed.
I still like seeing him as a father. Maybe because I have never stopped thinking he is an extraordinary father. When it was time to leave something strange happened. The body sometimes seems to know before the mind. And something in me pulled him. I didn’t even think. And I took his hand. Then I hugged him. Not the hug of someone who wants to go back. Nor the hug of someone who has already forgotten. No. It was the hug of someone who shared fifteen years of life with that person. Of someone who still recognizes in that body a huge part of their history. And I think he understood that. Because he hugged me the same way. And when he pulled away… I was already crying. Before that he smiled. He left. He closed the door. And I stayed there. Frozen. With a mix of emotions impossible to explain. There are days when I miss him. Other days when I feel anger. There are days when I look at him and see the man, I imagined growing old with. Other days when I see only the person who chose to leave. There are days when I admire him. Others when I get angry with him. And I think this is one of the hardest parts of separation. Realizing that love doesn’t always disappear when the relationship ends. Sometimes it transforms into a strange mix of gratitude, sadness, resentment, affection and longing. All at the same time.
For many months I carried a huge guilt. For the arguments. For the exhaustion. For motherhood. For time. For distance. I spent entire nights doing sums. “What if I had…”; “What if I hadn’t…”; “What if that day…”. Until I realized it no longer mattered. That I no longer had to carry that guilt. And I thought I was finally at peace. Until I realized there is still one, I carry. The only one that still lives with me.
I remembered my grandfather. Many years ago, my grandmother was very ill. First several strokes. Then an aggressive cancer. There were days when she went into a coma. Days when she no longer recognized us. Days when it seemed she no longer even recognized herself. My grandfather was always there. There was a time when he stopped being able to enter the room because it hurt too much to see her like that. But he never left the hospital.
I remember one day arriving to visit her and finding my grandfather leaning against the corridor wall. I will never forget that image. Hands behind his back. Head down. Eyes fixed on the ground. Doing nothing. Just waiting. Waiting for someone to open that door and tell him she would be okay. That image never left me. And today, without really understanding why, it came back. Because I think I finally understood what it always wanted to teach me.
For all these years there was a part of me that always knew which one of us would be that person leaning against the wall. Always knew that, if one day life put us in a position of choosing between staying or leaving… I would stay. Stay for one more conversation. Stay for one more attempt. Stay for one more hug. Stay for one more therapy session. Stay for one more difficult year. Stay tired. Stay angry. Stay disappointed. But stay.
I spent a long time looking for the guilt. At first, I thought it was in the arguments. Then in the exhaustion. Then in motherhood. Then in myself. But today I think I have finally found it. I asked myself many times “if I had loved more… would it have been enough?”. The truth is no. Because the problem was never loving too little. Or too much. And I will never apologize for that. My problem was believing that loving for two people could be enough for two. That one person’s love could replace two. And maybe that is one of love’s greatest illusions. Thinking we can love someone to the point of convincing them to stay. We can’t. Love never forces anyone to stay. It only shows us… who stays!
I spent years believing that, if I loved for both of us, it would be enough. That love solved everything. That time would solve the rest. Today I know it doesn’t. Love cannot make two people love in the same way. Nor with the same intensity. Nor with the same capacity to stay. And maybe that is the only guilt I still carry. Not the guilt of the relationship ending. Nor the guilt of not being enough. But the guilt of having confused hope with reality. Of having seen the signs. And still choosing to believe that one day they would be different.
Despite all this… If I were asked today whether I would erase the last fifteen years of my life… the answer would still be no. I would choose him again. I would choose our children again. I would choose all the trips. The laughter. The arguments. The nights. The mornings. I would choose almost everything. Because love is never a mistake. Even when it doesn’t last forever. There is only one thing I would do differently. And next time I love someone… I hope I choose someone who, when life gets difficult, stays by my side leaning against the same wall. Waiting for the same miracle.
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