REWRITING FAMILY

(and in that moment, I realized he was simply grieving the same loss I was)

The other day I picked up my oldest son from football practice. We were on our way to collect his little brother from school when, halfway there, he asked me to carry him. He said he was tired. And I didn’t hesitate for a second. Because there are places where life simply makes more sense. And for me, that is still one of them. His tiny hands wrapped around my neck. His head resting on my shoulder. His little body fitting perfectly against mine, as if that was still the safest place in the world… And, to be honest, maybe it still is.

He spent the whole walk telling me about training. How many goals he had scored. How many saves he had made. How many matches he had played. Which team had won. Who had played the best. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped talking and said:

• “Mum… did you know Diogo (fictional name of a friend) has two dads? He says he was born through a surrogate”

He smiled as he said it. And I smiled too. The truth is, I don’t even know Diogo. I have no idea whether that’s exactly how his story goes. But I took the opportunity to tell him that it could very well be true. That there are many different kinds of families.

Families with a mum and a dad. Others with just a mum. Others with just a dad. Others with two dads. Others with two mums. Others where grandparents are the ones raising the children. Others where uncles and aunts are part of everyday life. Others where babies were carried by another woman because their parents couldn’t have children themselves. Others where children joined their families through adoption.

I’ve spent many days teaching my son that there are many different kinds of families. But I never imagined that one day it would be so hard to explain why ours had become one of them too.

He stayed quiet for a few seconds. Then he said:

• “Pedro (fictional name of his best friend) has a mum, a dad and a sister. In the same house.

I smiled. And I replied:

• “He does, my love. But not every family is the same”

I had just started explaining that he also had a mum, a dad and a brother. That some children only have a mum. Others only have a dad… But he didn’t even let me finish. He looked at me and said very quietly:

• “But I have two houses…”

He paused again. And then came the sentence. The one that still echoes inside me today.

• “Mum… but I don’t want to have a different family. I want a family like Pedro’s”

There are questions a mother answers straight away. Things like, “Can I have an ice cream?”, “Can I take this toy?”, “Are we nearly there yet?” And then there are other questions. The ones that reach your heart first… and only much later make it to your lips. This was one of those. For a few seconds, I had no idea what to say. Not because there weren’t any answers. But because none of them could change what he was feeling.

In that moment I realised there’s a huge difference between answering a question… and easing the pain that’s hiding behind it. So I simply said:

• “I know, my love”

And it was true. I did know. Because deep down, he wanted exactly the same thing I did. I wanted them to wake up every morning in the same house too. I wanted the four of us to still be sitting around the same table. I wish we’d never had to have this conversation.

Sometimes our children’s questions aren’t really about the separation at all. They’re about missing what they once had. He tried once more. He said again that he wanted a family like his best friend’s. And it was at that exact moment that a neighbour walked past us. He stopped to say hello. Asked how we were. Smiled. Chatted about completely ordinary things. And without even knowing it… he rescued me. Never has a simple “Hi, how are you?” felt so much like a hug. Because I honestly didn’t know how to carry on with that conversation without feeling my heart shrink even more.

By the time the neighbour left, we could already see his brother’s school at the end of the street. So I quickly changed the subject. I asked him:

• “Who do you think your little brother is going to run to first when he sees us? Me or you?”

He smiled. And answered straight away:

• “Me!”

And he was absolutely right. The moment his little brother came out of school and saw him… he started running. He ran towards him laughing. Calling his name. As if they hadn’t seen each other for weeks. They hugged. They laughed. And in that instant, something beautiful happened. My heart felt full again. Because I realised that my children had also lost the family they thought they would have… but they hadn’t lost the instinct to run towards each other. And maybe that’s what will save us in the end.

It’s funny. We spend so much time teaching our children that every family is valid… that we forget they also have the right to grieve the family they wish they’d had. Because accepting that different families exist… doesn’t mean you stop longing for the one you always dreamed of.

Maybe I’ll never be able to give them the family they imagined. But every single day I hope I can give them something else. The certainty that they still belong to both of us. That they are deeply loved. And that, whatever happens between the adults… they will never stop belonging to each other. Because in the end, maybe that’s what truly makes a family. Not the number of houses. Not the way it began. But the arms we still run towards… when we finally find each other again.