REWRITING FAMILY

(some pain becomes even harder to bear when we are far from home)

Those of you who have been following me over the past few months have probably realised by now that I decided to stay in the same place where I lived before the separation. Far from my family. Without a support network. And financially dependent on my ex and my parents.

It has been incredibly difficult. And every day, I have been making an effort to accept this reality. Because, as much as it hurts to be here, I think the thought of being able to leave is even more suffocating. I could move closer to my family. I could have help. I could feel surrounded by the people who love me again. But my children would be 300 kilometres away from their father. And I don’t think I could bear the guilt I would feel every time they wanted their dad and he was far away. So I stay.

I stay because I believe my children need to have their father close by. I stay because I don’t want my decision to leave here to have consequences for their relationship with their dad. I stay because, even when my life becomes so difficult to manage, I keep trying to do what I believe is best for them.

But the truth is that staying has consequences too. And I have been learning about them and discovering them over the past few months. And I can assure you. It is awful. It is a constant feeling of loneliness. An overwhelming sense of helplessness. It is wanting to be surrounded by the people who love and care about you and not being able to because you are far away. It is missing the birthday of someone you care about. It is not being there for important dates. It is knowing that, if you go, you cannot get back on the same day. And that going and staying over is no longer an option, because there are days you have to share with your children’s father.

It is realising that, suddenly, people expect things of you as if you didn’t have an entire life to manage. As if it were simple. As if all it took was wanting to. As if relationships after a separation continued to work in exactly the same way.

And there is one part of this that I find particularly difficult. I live close to my ex’s family. And they are family to me. They always will be, in some way. Before the separation, I felt at home here. Surrounded by family. By friends. By people I shared meals, birthdays, weekends and moments with, never even imagining that one day they would no longer be part of my life.

But the truth is that a large part of that family and those friendships came into my life through him. They are on his side. And I know it is normal for things to change after a separation. I know I cannot expect people to choose sides. I know life goes on. That relationships rearrange themselves. That some invitations no longer make sense. That there are moments when it is only natural for him to be the one who is there.

I received some messages that really touched me. And I know that, when we meet, if we do meet, there are people with whom my relationship hasn’t changed. There is affection. There is history. There are things that don’t disappear just because a relationship has ended.

But the truth is that it has changed. And it is normal for that to happen. There are lunches and dinners I am no longer invited to. There are birthdays I am no longer part of. There are family moments he attends and I don’t. There are so many things that used to be part of our routine and that I now have to learn to forget. Because they continue to happen. Without me. And sometimes it is hard not to feel that everything carries on as normal. That people continue living their lives. That gatherings continue to happen. That photographs continue to be taken. That laughter continues to fill the same houses. As if I had never been part of it. As if I were disposable. And that hurts. Not because I think anyone owes me anything. Not because I want them to stop inviting him. Not because I want to occupy a place that is no longer mine. But because, for a long time, that was my place too.

And there is a huge difference between knowing that something has ended and feeling that, for everyone else, life has continued almost unchanged. And then people expect me to seek out those same arms to fall into. That same company. To keep seeing the same people, seeking the same comfort, the same support, to feel surrounded as I did before.

But I can’t. I can’t show up in the same places as if nothing had changed. I can’t sit at certain tables without feeling the absence of the life that existed before. I can’t seek comfort in places that, in some way, also remind me of what I have lost. And so I end up isolating myself. Feeling that, if I need anything, I can only count on what I have available to me. When, in the past, I could count on so much more.

And so I try to find new ways to feel less alone here. I have been spending more time with the people who stayed. I have been talking to and going out with more people who, unfortunately, are going through the same thing as me. Because there is something that only those who have been through a separation truly understand. Staying means losing so much. Including nights. Sleep. Peace of mind. The feeling that, no matter how badly life goes, there is always someone nearby you can turn to.

If you knew how many times I wake up during the night. To go on LinkedIn and look for remote job opportunities. With flexible hours. To try to find something that would allow me to combine a second job with the one I already have. To work out my finances. To look at houses near my family and imagine a life I will probably never have. There. Close to them.

I constantly do the maths. Maths that never add up. Always trying to figure out where I can take money from to cover what I need. Because the truth is that, right now, my expenses are greater than what I earn. And when I get paid, every single bit of my money already has a purpose. All I can do is manage the money I am given. By my ex and my parents.

It is wondering how on earth I am going to survive here, without enough money to become financially independent and without a support network. It is thinking of a thousand and one activities I could do to distract myself. To fill the time, especially on the days when I don’t have the kids. To try not to think so much. And knowing that, in the end, I probably won’t do almost anything I had planned. It is thinking about the dentist appointment I missed because that money will help pay for my son’s birthday party. It is cutting back on therapy sessions because there is swimming, football and school to pay for. It is looking at my own needs and realising that there is always something more urgent. Something that comes first. Something that cannot wait.

It is all of this. And so much more. But, at the same time, it is knowing that my children’s father is close by. It is knowing that, when they miss him, it won’t be long before they can be with him. It is seeing them smile when he arrives. It is knowing that, even though I am not with him, they are. And they are doing well. And, as much as it hurts me to be here, that gives me some comfort. Because I may be giving up so many things of my own, but I know my children are not giving up their dad.

But there are pains we are never prepared for. And the one that overwhelmed me yesterday was one of them. My children went to spend the afternoon with their dad. With friends and family, to celebrate the first birthday of a family friend whom, with everything that has happened, I haven’t yet had the chance to meet. I was already sad that I couldn’t be there. Because they were people I care about. People I have shared moments with. People I would have loved to celebrate that happy day with. But they are his friends and family. On his side. And it makes sense that they invite him. That they don’t invite me.

Even so, nothing hurt as much as what came next. I spent the afternoon cleaning the house. I was trying to fix the vacuum cleaner, which had broken down, while thinking about what I could sell to buy a new one, when my phone rang. It was my mum. The conversation started like so many others. Normally. Until, suddenly, I heard: “Your uncle passed away during the night. The funeral is tomorrow.”

My uncle died. And my heart shrank. Tears started streaming down my face. And all I wanted was a hug. I wanted my mum. I wanted my grandparents. I wanted my family. I wanted to be close to someone who knew him too. Someone who was feeling that pain too. But my family was far away. My friends here were out. And I had no one.

I hung up. Took a deep breath. Cried. Walked from one side of the house to the other, not really knowing what to do with myself. I started checking train timetables. Trying to work out whether I could go to the funeral. Whether I could get there in time. Whether I could hug my mum. Hug my grandparents. Cry with someone who knew my uncle. But my children were almost home. It was already late. There was no way I could go and come back on the same day with both of them. I couldn’t go on my own. And there was all the logistics involved, which, when you are just one person managing two young children, are not that simple.

And I stopped. I stopped because I didn’t know what to do. Because, suddenly, life had put me in front of something that should have been so simple. My uncle died. My family needs to be together. I need to be with my family. And I can’t. I can’t simply get in a car and go to them. I can’t simply be there. I can’t do what, at a time like this, seems so basic to me. To be there.

After hours of thinking about it, I decided I couldn’t go. And I carried on cleaning. I carried on sweeping the floor, because the vacuum cleaner had finally broken down completely. While crying. Now thinking about my uncle. The last of a generation of good people. Sweet as the sunset on a summer’s day. Like the dawn over the Alentejo plains. My uncle, who always welcomed me so warmly. In that house with its small, cosy rooms, where there was always room for one more. Where I felt good. Where there was a kind of peace that it hurts so much not to be able to seek out now.

My uncle, who loved writing. The only one in the family who had always had that passion for words. I remember one day when he called me into a little room in his house. I had been accepted into journalism school. And he wanted to show me some small newspaper clippings from papers he had written for when he was young. He had kept them. And he wanted to share them with me. He wanted to show me a part of his story. And, by doing so, he also introduced me to a part of mine. He told me about our family from generations before. About people I had never met. About stories that came before me. About a life that, in some way, belongs to me too.

And I found myself wondering whether perhaps my passion for words came from the same place as his. I don’t know. Maybe. The only thing I know is that I had been thinking about calling him for a long time. And I didn’t. I hadn’t seen him in a long time and kept thinking I should visit him. And I didn’t go. And now I never will. And this is a guilt I will carry with me. Along with his gentle eyes. His soft, quiet voice. His welcoming smile.

The guilt of letting days pass. Weeks. Months. Years. Of having thought so many times that I should call him, that I should visit him, that I should make time. And not doing it. There are things we think we still have time to do. A phone call. A visit. A hug. A lunch. But we keep putting them off because life is complicated. Because there is work. Because there are children. Because there is a separation. Because there are bills to pay. Because we are tired. Because tomorrow will be a better day.

And, suddenly, tomorrow no longer exists for that person. And we are left with everything we didn’t do. Wherever he may be, I will always carry a piece of him with me. And, in some way, I hope that can be felt here. In this space where I write. Where I bare my soul. Where I expose myself. Where I try to find words for the things I so often don’t even know how to explain.

I write. With the same passion I believe he had. With the same desire to tell stories. To preserve memories. To leave something of ourselves in the words we choose. And perhaps this is one way of keeping him close. Perhaps, in some way, this text is also a way of telling him what I didn’t tell him while he was alive.

That I loved him very much. That I wish I had seen him more often. That I wish I had had more time. That I will miss him. And that I hope, wherever he may be, he knows that he left something very beautiful inside me.

Meanwhile, my children were almost home. I washed my face. Put on a small smile. And welcomed them with open arms. Amid shouts and excitement, they both hugged me. On the floor. They gave me the hug I had been waiting for all day. The hug I needed to receive from my mum. From my grandparents. From someone who knew what had happened. And they were the ones who gave it to me. Without knowing. Without knowing that their mum had spent the afternoon crying. Without knowing that their mum’s uncle had died. Without knowing that their mum so desperately wanted to be somewhere else.

They hugged me and, for a few moments, I felt exactly where I needed to be. With them. And life went on. As if nothing had happened. The three of us had dinner. I gave them a bath. We played. We watched part of the national team’s match. I put them to bed. I did what I do every day. Because my children needed dinner. They needed a bath. They needed to play. They needed their mum. And their mum carried on. Even when, inside, all she wanted was to stop. Then I lay between them. In bed. Listening to them breathe. And only then did I start crying again. Because, finally, I no longer needed to smile. I no longer needed to pretend everything was fine. I no longer needed to be the mum who can do everything, even when she feels she can’t take any more. And I wished I could be closer to my family. To my uncle. To my mum. To my grandparents. To all those who, in that moment, were experiencing the same loss as me, but without me.

And perhaps that is what hurts me most at this stage of my life. It is not just being far away. It is realising that there are moments when distance stops being a matter of kilometres. It becomes an impossibility.

It is wanting to be at a funeral and not being able to. It is wanting to hug your mum and not being able to. It is wanting to cry with your grandparents and having to wait for the days to pass. It is knowing that the people we need most are going through something that belongs to us too, and not being able to be there. It is losing moments that will never come back. And it is realising that, while I try to protect my children from being far away from their dad, there are moments when I am the one who is far away from the people I need most.

I know I was the one who made the decision to stay. I know there are reasons for it. I know my children need their dad. But I also know that sometimes a decision can make sense and still hurt terribly. We can believe we are doing the best we can and still feel that we are losing parts of our own lives.

We can love our children more than anything and miss our family in a way we can barely explain. We can be grateful for what we have and, at the same time, cry over everything we cannot have. And we can be strong all day long and fall apart when no one is looking.

My uncle died. And I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t hug the people I needed to hug. I couldn’t say goodbye to him. I couldn’t be with my family at one of the moments when I most needed to feel that I was part of it.

And tomorrow life will go on. I will wake up. I will get my children ready. Take them to school. I will work. I will make dinner. I will take care of the things I need to take care of. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I will remember that my uncle is no longer here. I will remember that I should have called. That I should have visited him. That I should have made more of the time I still had. And I will try to learn to live with that.

But if there is one thing this loss has taught me, it is that there are moments when we don’t need to be any stronger. We need to be held. We need family. We need to be able to be where our hearts are asking us to be, without having to calculate the kilometres, the money, the schedules, the children, the trains or everything else life demands of us.

Because there are pains that should not be experienced alone. And there are goodbyes that should not happen from a distance. My uncle died. And all I wanted was to have been there.