REWRITING FAMILY

(and how do you learn to live with that?)

• “Mum, I miss Dad,” my oldest son said to me last night before falling asleep, as he pressed my belly button so I could feel his love and the invisible thread that connects us.
• “That’s a good thing, sweetheart. It means you love Daddy very much. We only miss the people we truly love,” I replied, gently stroking his hair.
• “I’m pink, yellow and green. And a little bit blue,” he continued.

Every now and then we read The Colour Monster books together. He knows that pink means love, yellow means happiness, green means calm… and blue means sadness.

I asked him why.

He cuddled up close to me and said he was only a little bit sad. Because what he wanted most of all… was for Daddy to sleep with us again.

I turned towards him. Curled up beside his little body. Kissed him. I told him that Mum and Dad weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. And that’s why we wouldn’t be sleeping together again. In the same bed. In the same house. He stayed quiet. Then he hugged me. One of those hugs that arrives at exactly the right moment and stays with you forever.

• “But look, this weekend you’re going to be with Daddy. You’re going to Alentejo, to the house you love so much with your auntie and your cousin. You’re going to have so much fun,” I told him calmly.

On the outside, I looked fine. On the inside, there was an ache that’s hard to explain. It’ll be only the second time I’ve been away from him for so many days. The first time was different. It was my choice. This time it isn’t. And there’s a huge difference between letting someone go… and having no choice but to let them go.

• “I want to go to Alentejo. But only if you come too,” he said.

I explained to him, once again, that Mum couldn’t go. He understood. And he didn’t argue. But he hadn’t fully accepted it.

• “But I don’t want to go with Auntie and my cousin…”
• “Why not?”
• “Because Auntie isn’t you. I want to go in the car with Daddy, Mummy and my little brother.”

Once again, I felt so very small. I took a deep breath. I didn’t go any further.

• “You’ll see, it’s going to be so much fun. And if you miss Mummy, you already know what to do. Just squeeze your belly button.”
• “I will, Mum. But I don’t want to go with Dad.”
• “But you are going, sweetheart. And you’re going to have so much fun. And my love is going with you. You won’t be able to see it, but you’ll feel it. I’ll send you lots of messages for you to read afterwards.”
• “I’ll send you lots too, Mum. Can my little brother come?”
• “Not yet, sweetheart. He’s still very little. He still needs Mummy at night. But before you know it he’ll be just a little bit bigger, and then he’ll go with you.”

He thought about it for a little while. Then he answered:

• “But I want him to go. Because if he goes… then you’ll go too.”

I smiled, not really knowing what to do with those words.

• “Mummy can’t go anymore, sweetheart. But one day your little brother will go with you.”
• “But I don’t just want my little brother. I want my little brother and my mummy,” he insisted.
• “I know, my love.”
• “I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m sad.”

He turned around. Buried his face in the pillow. Quietly cried. I asked him if he wanted one more story. One I’d make up just for him. Just ours. About Tom and Jerry. To distract him. So he wouldn’t fall asleep carrying only that pain. He said yes. I told him the story to help him step away from those thoughts. Afterwards, he hugged me tightly.

• “Mum, I miss Dad. I want Dad. But I don’t want to go with Dad. Because when I’m with Dad, I miss Mum even more.”

In that moment, there was no right answer. Only truth. And I remembered a friend of mine, who’s also going through a separation, telling me that a few days ago her son had said something very similar to her, maybe not with exactly the same words. She’d told him that it was actually a beautiful thing. Because the bigger the longing, the bigger the love. So I repeated the same thing to my son. Then, because I didn’t want that to be the last thought on his mind before falling asleep, I asked him to think of something that would make him really happy for us to do today, when he came home after having dinner at Dad’s house. I thought he’d say a football match. A puzzle. Pizza. Drawing together. Anything like that. But he didn’t. Instead, my son answered:

• “A happy thing would be having Mum and Dad living in the same house.”

I stayed silent. I told him I knew. But that, little by little, we were going to learn how to live like this. In two homes. I kept telling him stories, even though he hadn’t asked for any more, until he fell asleep. Then I was supposed to leave the room. Tidy up. Organise the house. Clean. Get everything ready for the next morning. Keep busy. Distract myself. I didn’t. I stayed there, lying between him and his little brother for a while longer, receiving the comfort I needed too. Because there’s one thing nobody ever tells us: it’s not only hard for them. It’s hard for us too. Every single day. Especially when we realise this: that some of our children’s deepest wishes are born from love… and yet we still can’t make them come true. And there are very few things that hurt more than that.