My four-year-old son rested his head in my lap as his tiny feet were tucked in hers, his body forming a bridge between me (the ex-wife) and Jill (my ex-husband’s fiancé.) The three of us rested on the couch in their family room, my son in a haze of anesthesia while I sat in a cloud of self-conscious silence.
Ex-wife. Soon-to-be-wife.
I was very much aware how our “titles” screamed of divorce, of lives gone awry, hearts broken and once-certain futures unwound. Yet there we were, a mom and stepmom brought together by our shared love for Connor who’d had a tonsillectomy that morning.
Only moments early, I’d sat in the backseat of their car, my arm wrapped around Connor, as we pulled into the driveway of Jill’s home with my ex-husband. I was unsure what to do next, having grown accustomed to goodbye moments when it was my ex’s day with our son. But this? How would I say goodbye after Connor’s surgery? I wanted him to feel the uniquely comforting presence of his mother. But it wasn’t “my” day and I dreaded the inevitability of goodbye when my child needed me most.
As the car glided to a stop, Connor, in the blur of awakening, flung his arms around my neck so tightly he took my breath away. He, too, knew I’d have to leave – a burden of understanding he should not have had at his age.
“But I missss you!” he cried through a whisper.
He knew.
I’ll never forget my son’s teary blue eyes, the clutch of his dimpled hands, the dismay buried within his tiny voice. With reluctant acceptance, I’d learned to cope with goodbyes. I’d had no choice and discovered the heart wrench never fully ceases – if anything, divorced moms who share custody develop a scab of numbness because it’s the only way to endure forced separations.
Then something happened that would change our lives forever.
Jill’s kind brown eyes, upon colliding with mine, softened in recognition of my pain. And she wouldn’t allow it. Immediately, she invited me into her house so I could be with my son at a time he needed me, and I, him.
As we sat on the couch, Connor falling asleep between us, there were few words at first. We danced around certain topics, carefully selected what to say next. Slowly, it became obvious we were so much more alike than we were different – we were both divorced moms of little boys, both young women finding our way in the world.
I took a deep breath, sifted my fingers through Connor’s hair and looked around their home, realizing I was surrounded by things that used to be in my own, things that didn’t hold much meaning until they no longer belonged to me. A carved wood chest, paintings, pictures. Obscure home décor had never before stirred a yearning within me for what would never be, if not for myself but for my child who now lived between two houses. Two. My ex and I had amicably divorced and moved-on with life, sure, but my heart ached for a less complicated time.
Life was simpler once.
So much had changed.
And yet there was so much change ahead, good change, that would transform my definition of a divorced family. This transformation began at the precise moment when, largely unbeknownst to Jill and I, shared kindness was the key to cracking open the door to a new world for ourselves and our children – a kinder, more accepting world that would find us adapting to each other as we learned how to come together to mother our son.
Jill asked if I wanted to stay the night, insisting she would make me a bed in my son’s room.
Stay the night in my ex’s house? At the invitation of his fiancé?
The wake of Jill’s offer rippled with such beautiful selflessness and understanding, I knew the pieces of our lives would fall comfortably into place. Everything was going to be okay. The emptiness I’d had since divorce was slowly being filled by someone from whom I’d never expected to receive solace.
Mutual kindness nudged us toward an incredible trajectory uncommon for women like us. The morning of our son’s surgery we had a foreshadowing glimpse of years that would stretch before us – of shared holidays and birthdays and sporting events for our sons that would turn to times we chose to get together, not because of our children, but because we had become friends. Today, our lives are anchored in happy-hour dinners, BBQ’s, Super Bowl parties, wine tasting and Christmas tree picking.
We are, all of us, so much better together.
Our children are thriving. And so are we.
Our situation can’t and doesn’t happen for everyone– we realize we aren’t the norm. In some way, this makes our relationship even more precious because we have an acute awareness of our family’s fragility had we not been committed to protecting it.
I know the years ahead will find us creating more family memories and navigating more parenting challenges as Connor navigates the teenage years. I also know we’ll continue to stretch, grow and adapt as we share more, learn more and evolve more as women and mothers who came together.
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