(and I realised that my son still remembers everything)
The last weekend before going on holiday, my dad gave me a necklace. It wasn’t a special occasion. There was no birthday. It wasn’t Christmas. And there was no particular reason. It was simply a gesture. One of those small ones. But full of love. The kind that says “I’m here” without ever needing to say it.
I got home, put it around my neck… and I still hadn’t taken it off. The next day I stayed home with my oldest son. He was ill. It was one of those days that, ironically, end up giving us exactly what we need most.
I worked a little. Tidied the house. Cleaned. But above all… I was with him. We played football in the living room. Did puzzles. Built Lego. Painted. Ran around. Jumped. Watched cartoons. Read stories. Hugged each other countless times. And without even realising it, I spent the whole day reclaiming time that I feel life took away from me far too soon.
One of the things that has been hardest for me about this separation… is when it happened. When my children’s father first told me he wanted to separate… I had a baby who was less than a year old in my arms. I was exhausted. There were sleepless nights. A baby who needed me for everything. And an older son trying to understand why, all of a sudden, he no longer had his mum all to himself. They spent their days competing for the same lap. Several times a day. And inevitably… there wasn’t always enough room for both of them.
I spent months feeling guilty. Because I felt I no longer had time that was just for my oldest son. Then the separation happened. And that time became even rarer. Maybe that’s why days like the other day feel so much like home to me.
And this happened in the middle of the afternoon. We were sitting together on the sofa. I’d just finished telling him a story. He looked at my neck and asked:
- “Mum… is that necklace new?”
I smiled. I told him it was. That Grandpa had given it to me. He stared at it for a few seconds. Then he said:
- “But the one I gave you is prettier.”
I smiled again. Without understanding what he was talking about. I asked him:
- “Which necklace, sweetheart?”
He looked at me as though the answer were obvious.
- “The one I gave you with Daddy… when he asked you to marry him.”
And suddenly… I was taken back a few months. To the day his dad put the ring on a necklace. He knew I didn’t like wearing rings. They had planned the surprise together. My son was the one who came running in. He was the one who placed the necklace in my hands. While, behind him… his dad knelt down to the sound of a song he had written and sung for the occasion. I had never thought about that moment in quite that way again. Until the day my son brought it up.
I took a deep breath. I told him I remembered it very well. And I explained that the necklace was beautiful. But that I couldn’t wear it anymore. He wouldn’t even let me finish.
- “Yes, you can.”
I smiled. I said softly:
- “No, sweetheart… Daddy and I aren’t going to get married anymore.”
He looked at me. Very seriously. As if I were simply mistaken.
- “But you can get married. Go get it. Put it on.”
I told him again that I couldn’t. That the necklace was safely put away. That I would never throw it away. But that I couldn’t wear it anymore. He threw himself onto the sofa. And started crying. He wanted me to take off the necklace Grandpa had given me. And put that one on instead. His. Ours. The one that belonged to the family he still believed could come back. And that was when the doorbell rang. It was a delivery driver. Never has a delivery driver saved me quite so much. Because I no longer knew what to say.
There are questions for which there are no words beautiful enough. Or truthful enough. After the delivery driver left… the conversation had moved on. But I stayed there. Stuck in that moment. Thinking about one thing. My son still remembers everything. He remembers the day his dad asked me to marry him. He remembers the necklace. He remembers the surprise. He remembers the family we were. One day… he will probably stop remembering. Memories become blurred. Details disappear. And I honestly don’t know what breaks my heart more. Knowing that one day my son will forget so many of the most beautiful moments we shared… Or realising that, while he still remembers them… he continues to wish every day that they would come back. Because perhaps that is one of the hardest things about childhood. Children don’t just grieve the people they lose. They grieve the stories they believed would last forever.
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