Approximately eight years ago, as I was settling my son into bed, he shared that his friend was relocating because his parents no longer wished to remain married. My daughter, clad in cozy pajamas and clutching her favorite storybook, listened intently from her brother’s room, where we often read together.
“That’s unfortunate, sweetheart,” I replied, “but he’s only moving to another town, and we’ll make sure to stay in touch.”
As he nodded in agreement, my daughter voiced a concern that caught me off guard: Would her father and I ever get divorced? In that moment, I was transported back to my own childhood, recalling a similar query I once posed to my mother when I was nine. “Never,” she had said confidently. “We will be married forever.”
Just three years later, my parents divorced, and our family home was sold, leading us to a new town with my mother.
When my daughter asked me that question, I hesitated. I didn’t want to make a promise I might not be able to keep. Yet, deep down, I felt compelled to offer reassurance. “Never,” I said firmly. “We will be married forever.”
I lifted her into my arms, and her smile melted my heart as she drifted off to sleep before we even reached her room.
Since my separation, I’ve carried that conversation with me, its weight heavy on my heart. A part of me hoped she had forgotten my promise, but just recently, she brought it up again while we were driving to the mall.
Eight years had passed, and it was time to address it. I could sense her nervousness, mirroring my own, so I switched off the radio, determined to navigate this conversation thoughtfully.
During that fateful night long ago, I had declared to my children my belief that I would remain married to their father forever. I expressed my deep love for him on our wedding day and with the birth of each child, particularly on the day she had asked if we would always be together.
Without delving into excessive detail, I explained that people evolve, and sometimes couples grow apart, leading to a natural fading of love. This can result in the difficult decision to take separate paths for the sake of one’s well-being, and that’s perfectly acceptable.
I reassured my kids that this didn’t imply anyone was at fault; it was simply a decision made for the greater good of our family. I shared how much effort we invested in our relationship, emphasizing that it wasn’t a decision made lightly or impulsively. The process involves considering the feelings of others and wrestling with the situation for a long time before reaching a conclusion.
“I want you to know,” I told them as we drove, “that whether or not you choose to get married, what matters most is having meaningful relationships built on love. If being with someone makes you feel like a part of you is fading, you have to give yourself permission to change it.”
Then, I implored them to not let my divorce discourage them from seeking true love. “Your father and I shared a beautiful relationship. We worked tirelessly on it, and ultimately, we loved each other enough to let go. Just because our marriage has ended doesn’t mean we failed.”
They listened quietly, and I asked if they understood my message. They affirmed that they did.
I felt confident they would remember this conversation, just as they had the earlier one on my son’s bed. As I turned the radio back on and glanced in the rearview mirror, I caught my daughter smiling and leaning against the window.
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In summary, my experience has taught me that while marriages can end, the love and respect shared during that time can still hold value. Encouraging my children to pursue authentic connections is far more important than any promise of permanence.