Photo Credit: Trym Nilsen
I could hear the sniffles in the room across the hall, a whimper, and the sound of pain. I knew there were tears, and I debated whether to intervene.
It was bed time and six-year-old's have a special way of finagling their way from under those covers for just one last thing. But, the tug at my heart knew this was something worth pulling my second heartbeat back into my room. I called out for him, "Abram...come here."
And he shuffled in, shoulders heavy, the weight of the world a child didn't deserve to have. I asked him what was wrong. He sighed, tiny gasps of air between tears. No answer.
I prodded, "you can tell me."
He couldn't get the words out, and then inaudible sounds and he sank to the floor.
It was bed time and six-year-old's have a special way of finagling their way from under those covers for just one last thing. But, the tug at my heart knew this was something worth pulling my second heartbeat back into my room. I called out for him, "Abram...come here."
And he shuffled in, shoulders heavy, the weight of the world a child didn't deserve to have. I asked him what was wrong. He sighed, tiny gasps of air between tears. No answer.
I prodded, "you can tell me."
He couldn't get the words out, and then inaudible sounds and he sank to the floor.
Sigh, I knew what this was about. Earlier that day he came to me with the kind of serious concern an innocent child would have for the loves of his life...his parents.
"Daddy is lonely," he told me.
"Daddy's not lonely," I replied.
"He is mommy. He lives by himself. No one is there with him."
"But daddy likes living by himself," I answer. A bit of anger flashes inside, in the way divorce can have that residual effect on you. He chose this. I instead respond as positively as I can, "But, daddy has his girlfriend Abram, he's not lonely. Sometime adults like being by themselves."
Abram doesn't like the answer, but eventually resigns, until now. I turn my attention back to his sniffles, pull him up from the floor and rub his back.
"I can't understand you Abram, speak up so mommy can hear you, just say it."
He blurts it out, "I want my family to be back together again."
My heart sinks. I get it, but I hate it. The pain I can't heal. The pain I caused. The pain now three years in hindsight, but ever-present today. I cannot escape it, it swallows my children up and holds them hostage. That's what we did to them. That's what WE did to them. And counseling, and happy days, and hugs and kisses, and listening ears only subsides it until next time.
I tell Abram, we can't. I tell him in child-like language that we've both moved on. That he has two great homes. That it would be weird with my new love, that he likes, if daddy was here too. I try, in all the ways, to say "Sorry, mommy hurt you."
It's never enough.
"Daddy is lonely," he told me.
"Daddy's not lonely," I replied.
"He is mommy. He lives by himself. No one is there with him."
"But daddy likes living by himself," I answer. A bit of anger flashes inside, in the way divorce can have that residual effect on you. He chose this. I instead respond as positively as I can, "But, daddy has his girlfriend Abram, he's not lonely. Sometime adults like being by themselves."
Abram doesn't like the answer, but eventually resigns, until now. I turn my attention back to his sniffles, pull him up from the floor and rub his back.
"I can't understand you Abram, speak up so mommy can hear you, just say it."
He blurts it out, "I want my family to be back together again."
My heart sinks. I get it, but I hate it. The pain I can't heal. The pain I caused. The pain now three years in hindsight, but ever-present today. I cannot escape it, it swallows my children up and holds them hostage. That's what we did to them. That's what WE did to them. And counseling, and happy days, and hugs and kisses, and listening ears only subsides it until next time.
I tell Abram, we can't. I tell him in child-like language that we've both moved on. That he has two great homes. That it would be weird with my new love, that he likes, if daddy was here too. I try, in all the ways, to say "Sorry, mommy hurt you."
It's never enough.
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