Divorced Mom Quotes

My dad had limitations. That's what my good-hearted mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm.

But in the real world, you couldnt really just split a family down the middle, mom on one side, dad the other, with the child equally divided between. It was like when you ripped a piece of paper into two: no matter how you tried, the seams never fit exactly right again. It was what you couldn't see, those tiniest of pieces, that were lost in the severing, and their absence kept everything from being complete.

When mom and dad went to war the only prisoners they took were the children

Some of us were brought into this troubled world primarily or only to increase our fathers’ chances of not being left by our mothers, or vice versa.

Same first name as a president and an obscure comic book character. Half-Jewish. Excellent grammar. Easily nauseated. Likes Reese's and Oreos (i.e. not an idiot). Divorced parents. Big brother to a fetus. Dad lives in Savannah. Dad's an English teacher. Mom's an epidemiologist. The problem is, I'm beginning to realize I hardly know anything about anyone. I mean I generally know who's a virgin. But I don't have a clue whether most people's parents are divorced, or what their parents do for a living. I mean, Nick's parents are doctors. But I don't know what Leah's mom does, and I don't even know what the deal is with her dad, because Leah never talks about him. I have no idea why Abby's dad and brother still live in DC. And these are my best friends. I've always thought of myself as nosy, but I guess I'm just nosy about stupid stuff. It's actually really terrible, now that I think about it.

A Dom never takes away. He only builds.

Kay wasn’t looking for true love. It was embarrassing to admit, but she wasn’t completely over her divorce. She just wanted an opportunity to take her social skills out for a spin every now and then. She needed to be sure Kay The Person, hadn’t been completely overtaken by Kay The Mom.

In a study of more than twelve thousand teenagers after divorce, children living with single dads fared better than children living with single moms.

No, it really isn't, but trust me, getting divorced and having to start over is the least in life that isn't fair. I had to watch the parents of a way too young girl realize that their daughter died for no other reason than people can't figure out how to be nice to each other. It isn't that hard, just be nice and people might not have to suffer needlessly, but that isn't the world we live in, so young girls die. That isn't fair, Mom. People falling out of love is vicious and it sucks, but there are far worse things you could be going through. I know that sounds harsh but it's very true.

You self-proclaimed "MILF" hunters have it all wrong -- we aren't the prey, YOU are. You are but a Service Male - a SMILF!

Up to me. Great. I could hurt my mom and my sisters, or I could hurt my dad. Perfect. Isn't divorce fun?

The Divorce Diet doesn’t look good on you, Mom.

The only dream I ever had was the dream of New York itself, and for me, from the minute I touched down in this city, that was enough. It became the best teacher I ever had. If your mother is anything like mine, after all, there are a lot of important things she probably didn't teach you: how to use a vibrator; how to go to a loan shark and pull a loan at 17 percent that's due in thirty days; how to hire your first divorce attorney; what to look for in a doula (a birth coach) should you find yourself alone and pregnant. My mother never taught me how to date three people at the same time or how to interview a nanny or what to wear in an ashram in India or how to meditate. She also failed to mention crotchless underwear, how to make my first down payment on an apartment, the benefits of renting verses owning, and the difference between a slant-6 engine and a V-8 (in case I wanted to get a muscle car), not to mention how to employ a team of people to help me with my life, from trainers to hair colorists to nutritionists to shrinks. (Luckily, New York became one of many other moms I am to have in my lifetime.) So many mothers say they want their daughters to be independent, but what they really hope is that they'll find a well-compensated banker or lawyer and settle down between the ages of twenty-five and twenty-eight in Greenwich, Darien, or That Town, USA, to raise babies, do the grocery shopping, and work out in relative comfort for the rest of their lives. I know this because I employ their daughters. They raise us to think they want us to have careers, and they send us to college, but even they don't really believe women can be autonomous and take care of themselves.

I became a student of my own depressed experience, trying to unthread its causes. What was the root of all this despair? Was it psychological? (Was it Mom and Dad's fault?( Was it just temporal, a 'bad time' in my life? (When the divorce ends will the depression end with it?) Was it genetic? (Melancholy, called by many names, has run through my family for generations, along with its sad bride, Alcoholism.) Was it cultural? (Is this just the fallout of postfeminist American career girl trying to find balance in an increasingly stressful alienting urban world?) Was it astrological? (Am I so sad because I'm a thin-skinned Cancer whose major signs are all ruled by unstable Gemini?) Was it artistic? (Don't creative people always suffer from depression because we're so supersensitive and special?) Was it evolutionary? (Do I carry in me the residual panic that comes after millennia of my species' attempting to survive a brutal world?) Was it karmic? (Are all these spasms of grief just the consequences of bad behavior in previous lifetimes, the last obstacles before liberation?) Was it hormonal? Dietary? Philosophical? Seasonal? Environmental? Was I tapping into a universal yearning for God? Did I have a chemical imbalance? Or did I just need to get laid?

Why are you here? I'm here because this is where my Mom's family is from and after my parents got divorced, she kept the house. Because I was conceived and born and grew up. I'm breathing and my heart is beating and as much as it hurts—as much searing, monumental pain as it causes me—I have to exist.

To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: HAPPY CHRISTMAS Have you gotten used to the time difference? Bloody hell,I can't sleep. I'd call,but I don't know if you're awake or doing the family thing or what. The bay fog is so thick that I can't see out my window.But if I could, I am quite certain I'd discover that I'm the only person alive in San Francisco. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: I forgot to tell you. Yesterday I saw a guy wearing an Atlanta Film Festival shirt at the hospital.I asked if he knew you,but he didn't.I also met an enormous,hair man in a cheeky Mrs. Claus getup. he was handing out gifts to the cancer patients.Mum took the attached picture. Do I always look so startled? To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Are you awake yet? Wake up.Wake up wake up wake up. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: re: Are you awake yet? I'm awake! Seany started jumping on my bed,like,three hours ago. We've been opening presents and eating sugar cookies for breakfast. Dad gave me a gold ring shaped like a heart. "For Daddy's sweetheart," he said. As if I'm the type of girl who'd wear a heart-shaped ring. FROM HER FATHER. He gave Seany tons of Star Wars stuff and a rock polishing kit,and I'd much rather have those.I can't beleive Mom invited him here for Christmas. She says it's because their divorce is amicable (um,no) and Seany and I need a father figure in our lives,but all they ever do is fight.This morning it was about my hair.Dad wants me to dye it back, because he thinks I look like a "common prostitute," and Mom wants to re-bleach it.Like either of them has a say. Oops,gotta run.My grandparents just arrived,and Granddad is bellowing for his bonnie lass.That would be me. P.S. Love the picture.Mrs. Claus is totally checking out your butt. And it's Merry Christmas, weirdo. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: HAHAHA@ Was it a PROMISE RING? Did your father give you a PROMISE RING? To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: Re: HAHAHA! I am so not responding to that.

I open my arms wide and let the wind flow over me. I love the universe and the universe loves me. That’s the one-two punch right there, wanting to love and wanting to be loved. Everything else is pure idiocy—shiny fancy outfits, Geech-green Cadillacs, sixty-dollar haircuts, schlock radio, celebrity-rehab idiots, and most of all, the atomic vampires with their de-soul-inators, and flag-draped coffins. Goodbye to all that, I say. And goodbye to Mr. Asterhole and the Red Death of algebra and to the likes of Geech and Keeeevin. Goodbye to Mom’s rented tan and my sister’s chargecard boobs. Goodbye to Dad for the second and last time. Goodbye to black spells and jagged hangovers, divorces, and Fort Worth nightmares. To high school and Bob Lewis and once-upon-a-time Ricky. Goodbye to the future and the past and, most of all, to Aimee and Cassidy and all the other girls who came and went and came and went. Goodbye. Goodbye. I can’t feel you anymore. The night is almost too beautifully pure for my soul to contain. I walk with my arms spread open under the big fat moon. Heroic “weeds rise up from the cracks in the sidewalk, and the colored lights of the Hawaiian Breeze ignite the broken glass in the gutter. Goodbye, I say, goodbye, as I disappear little by little into the middle of the middle of my own spectacular now

how many times had I begged Mom to divorce him already?

As long as it’s BYOB, I’m cool,” Tuck answers. “And if Danny is coming then you better lock up the liquor cabinet.” “We can move the hooch to G’s room,” Logan says with a snort. “God knows he won’t drink a drop of it.” Tuck glances over at me with a grin. “Poor baby. When are you gonna learn to handle your liquor like a man?” “Hey, I handle the drinking part just fine. It’s the morning after that does me in.” I smirk at my teammates. “Besides, I’m your captain. Somebody has to stay sober to keep your crazy asses in line.” “Thanks, Mom.” Logan pauses, then shakes his head. “Actually, no, you’re the mom,” he tells Tucker, grinning at Tuck’s apron before turning back at me. “Guess that makes you the dad. You two are positively domestic.” We both flip him the finger. “Aw, are Mommy and Daddy mad at me?” He gives a mock gasp. “Are you guys gonna get a divorce?” “Fuck off,” Tuck says, but he’s laughing. The microwave beeps, and Tucker pulls out the defrosted chicken, then proceeds to cook our dinner while I do my homework at the counter. And damned if the whole thing isn’t domestic as hell.

So then they’d snuggled up to each other, naked, and started to talk. Ezra told her about the time he was six and sculpted a red squirrel out of clay, only to have his brother squash it. How he used to smoke a lot of pot after his parents got divorced. About the time he had to take the family’s fox terrier to the vet to have her put to sleep. Aria told him about how when she was little, she kept a can of split pea soup named Pee as a pet and cried when her mom tried to cook Pee for dinner.

Well,' she said, adjusting a pot lid, 'I have my family of origin, which is you and Mom. And then Jaime's family, my family of marriage. And hopefully, I'll have another family, as well. Our family, that we make. Me and Jaimie.' Now I felt bad, bringing this up so soon after Jamie's gaffe. 'You will,' I said. She turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. 'I hope so. But that's just the thing, right? Family isn't something that's supposed to be static or set. People marry in, divorce out. They're born, they die. It's always evolving, turning into something else. even that picture of Jamie's family was only the true representation for that one day. But the next , someone had probably changed. It had to.' ... Later, when the kitchen had filled up with people looking for more wine, and children chasing Roscoe, I looked across all the chaos at Cora, thinking that of course you would assume our definitions would be similar, since we had come from the same place. But this wasn't actually true. We all have one idea of what the color blue is, but pressed to describe it specifically, there are so many ways: the ocean, lapis lazuli, the sky, someone's eyes. Our definitions were as different as we were ourselves.

Don't people get married because they're full of love and then divorced when they run out of it?" (Elsa) "Did you learn that one in school?" (Mom) "It's my own theory." (Elsa)

Ermaline has entered the room noiselessly and is whispering to Nana. When she leaves, Nana and Papa start talking about friends of Mom's who are in the middle of a scandalous divorce. Mom and Dad keep glancing at Adam, and Nana keeps asking Mom and Dad questions, pulling their attention back to the conversation. I have seen this before. It's Nana's highly effective and very annoying way of not mentioning the elephant in the living room. But why does she have to think of Adam as an elephant? Why can't he just be their son? ~pgs 40-42; Hattie on adults

What if I told you Jesus came to abolish religion? What if I told you getting you to vote Republican really wasn’t his mission? What if I told you religious right doesn’t automatically mean Christian? And just because you call some people blind, doesn’t automatically give you vision. I mean, if religion is so great, why has it started so many wars? Why does it build huge churches, but fail to feed the poor? Tell single moms God doesn’t love them, if they’ve ever had a divorce? Yet God in the Old Testament actually calls the religious people whores.

Just because I didn't have a spouse to help and enjoy those activities with didn't mean they couldn't happen. Just because my plan A didn't work out didn't mean plan B couldn't be really kickass. In fact, who was to tell me that my life as a single mother couldn't be completely wonderful.

If you had to listen to a lawyer read the email or text out loud in a courtroom, would you change the tone? When I was a teenager, my mom used to tell me not to put anything in writing that I would feel uncomfortable seeing published on the front page of the New York Times. I understood, even then, what she was suggesting: Engage only in behavior that you’re prepared to stand by and defend. Be on your toes to be your best self at all times, even when no one is watching.

But she knew it would never happen. She had no intention of visiting him there. Even if she were open to the idea, as Mom and Dad both hoped she would be, the mathematics of it seemed utterly impossible to her. What was she supposed to do, spend Christmas there and Easter here? See her dad every other holiday and one week during the summer, just enough to glimpse his new life in fragments, tiny slivers of a world she had no part in? And all the while missing out on those moments of her mom’s life—her mom, who’d done nothing to deserve to spend Christmas alone? That, it seemed to Hadley, was no way to live. Perhaps if there were more time, or if time were more malleable; if she could be both places at once, live parallel lives; or, simpler yet, if Dad would just come home. Because as far as she was concerned, there was no in-between: She wanted all or nothing, illogically, irrationally, even though something inside of her knew that nothing would be too hard, and all was impossible.

By the way,” I said, “I wanted to tell you—about why I decided to hike the PCT? I got divorced. I was married and not long ago I got divorced, and also about four years ago my mom died—she was only forty-five and she got cancer suddenly and died. It’s been a hard time in my life and I’ve sort of gotten offtrack. So I …” He opened his eyes wider, looking at me. “I thought it would help me find my center, to come out here.” I made a crumpled gesture with my hands, out of words, a bit surprised that I’d let so many tumble out.

If you fight with a crazy person, an onlooker cannot tell the difference.

I'm a better mom and a better human when I'm standing in love and hope.

I took on my depression like it was the fight of my life, wich of course, it was. I became a student of my own depressed experience, trying to unthread its causes. What was the root of all this dispair? Was it psychological? (Mom and Dad's fault?) Was it just temporal, a "bad time" in my life? (When the divorce ends, will the depression end with it?) Was it genetic? (Melancholy, called by many names, has run through my family for generations, along with its sad bride, Alcholisme.) Was it cultural? (Is this just the fallout of a postfeminist American career girl trying to find balance in an increasingly stressful and alienating urban world?) Was it astrological? (Am I so sad because I'm a thin-skinned cancer whose major signs are all ruled by unstable Gemini?) Was it artistic? (Don't creative people always suffer from depression because we're so supersensitive and special?) Was it evolutionary? (Do I carry in me the residual panic that come after millennia of my species' attempting to survive a brutal world?) Was it Karmic? (Are all these spasms of grief just the consequences of bad behavior in previous lifetimes, the last obstacles before liberation?) Was it hormonal? Dietary? Philosophical? Seasonal? Environmental? Did I have a chemical imbalance? Or did I just need to get laid?

It's kind of freaky to send your picture over the Internet to someone you don't really know and then have to sit waiting for their judgement on how you look. Maybe that's why my aunt Penny, who got divorced two years ago, hates online dating so much. Mom's always nagging her to go back on Match.com but Aunt Penny says she'd rather have root canal work - without anesthetic.

Her parents were going through a divorce, and she had just discovered something poignant that she shared with me, that I have shared with numerous people since. "You know, your mom is just a woman," she said. "She's just a woman like you and me and all other women. We put our moms up on this ridiculous pedestal. We see them as different from the rest of humanity. But they're not. They're just women.

FURIOUS FAVOR I wonder if David would be allowed in our churches today. In most cases, when a church member has an affair, he is shunned at best or mistreated at worst—even if he repents. But David doesn’t just have an affair. He lusts, covets, fornicates, lies, and gets another man hammered. Then he tries to keep his dirty little secrets by murdering the husband of the woman he “loves.” I doubt I’ve met anyone as sinful as David. Have you? He breaks half of the Ten Commandments in a single episode. And he doesn’t repent until he’s caught. But when Nathan shoves his prophetic finger into David’s chest and rebukes him, David falls to his knees and admits his guilt. And right then, at that moment, God rips open the heavens to reach down and touch David’s soul with stubborn delight. God eagerly forgives David for his sin, and all of it is buried at the bottom of the sea, never to be remembered again. There is no hiccup in God’s furious favor toward David. So why do repentant sinners still bear the stigma of “adulterer,” “divorced,” or “addict” in our churches today? It’s one thing if they don’t repent. But quite often we shun repentant sinners, like Jeffrey Dahmer, whose crimes we just can’t forget. “He’s the former addict.” “That’s the divorced mom.” “Here comes the guy who slept with the church secretary.” For some reason we love to define people by the sin in their lives—even past sin in their lives—rather than by the grace that forgave it. It’s no wonder that David pens the last sentence in Psalm 23: “Surely goodness and mercy shall [hunt me down] all the days of my life” (Ps. 23:6).

When divorce or separation involves mutual children, it's often the father who suffers the most as a parent and the children who suffer in regards to their relationship with their dad. During my separation, my daughters mom used our daughter as a weapon in an effort to hurt me. She knew that I love my daughter immensely and so she would do all kinds of manipulative tricks to get in the way of our daddy daughter relationship in an effort to cause me emotional pain. She was willing to cause our daughter emotional pain in her effort to cause me emotional pain. Unfortunately, millions of fathers and children have experienced this pain. It has to end.

I told them the whole story, from Ms. Besser’s fateful phone call until right now. “Now” was Jeff’s stuff slowly being packed away into trunks. It was my mom crying in her room at night. It was me crying in my room at night. It was all of us, even Jeff, feeling like we were going through the divorce again. And because of that, it was Mom clinging to me, as if to say, Don’t you go away, too. Well, I wouldn’t. That was the one thing she’d never have to worry about.

A NEW, MORE FRACTURED LIGHT Dear Sugar, My parents recently decided to get a divorce. To be more accurate, my father left my mother for a younger woman. A cliché story, except when it happened to my family I was shattered, as if it was the first time it had ever happened. I’m an adult. I’ve always been close with my father. I looked up to him as a role model. To find out he’d been seeing someone else without telling my mom and that he’d been lying to all of us about it was very painful. Suddenly I can’t trust this man I’ve always counted on and loved.

I’m going to let you in on a secret. People don’t grow up like you think they do. The whole grown-up thing is a myth. Whatever’s wrong with you now will probably be wrong with you in twenty years. If people really grew up there would be no crime, no divorce, no Civil War reenactors. Think about it. Was Uncle Ray a grown-up? Does Dad always behave like a grown-up? It’s all bullshit. I can’t tell you what Mom’s been doing lately, but I will say, not grown-up… It’s not like you think it will be, that one day you’ll wake up and realize that you’ve got things figured out. You never figure it out. Ever.

children who experience multiple transitions in family structure may fare worse developmentally than children raised in stable two-parent families and perhaps even than children raised in stable, single-parent families.” For many kids, the first impulse is escape, but people who lurch toward the exit rarely choose the right door. This is how my aunt found herself married at sixteen to an abusive husband. It’s how my mom, the salutatorian of her high school class, had both a baby and a divorce, but not a single college credit under her belt before her teenage years were over. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Chaos

The view was, to say the least, incredible. And the feeling of it all - of being so small and insignificant - was a lot like the feeling I got when Burn and I would stand on the cliff in the mornings and watch the sun kiss the world awake. I felt...unimportant. I felt light, and airy, and free. I felt like nothing mattered - not my grades, not my college future, not my awful spying on the Blackthorns - nothing. I'd done nothing wrong up here. I had no responsibilities up here - not to Dad, not to Mom, not even to myself. For a few minutes, I felt untouchable. Nothing could get me in the sky, not even my problems. I watched the sun as I fell. So what, I thought, if Mom and Dad divorced? Would it really be the end of the world? This was the world - this huge thing below me, reduced to nothing more than toy-like dioramas of forests and towns. There were a hundred million problems waiting for me when I landed, but when you got high enough, all those problems seemed so small and insignificant. The sun didn't care about divorce. The sky didn't care about grades. No one cared, except me and the people in the below-world. I wasn’t a scholarshipper up here; I wasn’t a teacher’s pet, a wannabe psychologist, a girl who left her friends behind, or an attempted good-daughter. I was just…me.

I’m sipping cranberry-and-ginger-ale punch and talking to Aunt D. about her divorce when Peter Kavinsky walks in wearing a hunter-green sweater with a button-down shirt underneath, carrying a Christmas tin. I almost choke on my punch. Kitty spots him when I do. “You came!” she cries. She runs right into his arms, and he puts down the cookie tin and picks her up and throws her around. When he sets her down, she takes him by the hand and over to the buffet table, where I’m busying myself rearranging the cookie plate. “Look what Peter brought,” she says, pushing him forward. He hands me the cookie tin. “Here. Fruitcake cookies my mom made.” “What are you doing here?” I whisper accusingly. “The kid invited me.” He jerks his head toward Kitty, who has conveniently run back over to the puppy. Josh is standing up now, looking over at us with a frown on his face. “We need to talk.” So now he wants to talk. Well, too late. “We don’t have anything to talk about.” Peter takes me by the elbow and I try to shake him off, but he won’t let go. He steers me into the kitchen. “I want you to make up an excuse to Kitty and leave,” I say. “And you can take your fruitcake cookies with you.” “First tell me why you’re so pissed at me.” “Because!” I burst out. “Everyone is saying how we had sex in the hot tub and I’m a slut and you don’t even care!” “I told the guys we didn’t!” “Did you? Did you tell them that all we did was kiss and that’s all we’ve ever done?” Peter hesitates, and I go on. “Or did you say, ‘Guys, we didn’t have sex in the hot tub,’ wink wink, nudge nudge.

Come over early tomorrow morning,” Marlboro Man asked over the phone one night. “We’re gathering cattle, and I want you to meet my mom and dad.” “Oh, okay,” I agreed, wondering to myself why we couldn’t just remain in our own isolated, romantic world. And the truth was, I wasn’t ready to meet his parents yet. I still hadn’t successfully divorced myself from California J’s dear, dear folks. They’d been so wonderful to me during my years of dating their son and had become the California version of my parents, my home away from home. I hated that our relationship couldn’t continue despite, oh, the minor detail of my breaking up with their son. And already? Another set of parents? I wasn’t ready. “What time do you want me there?” I asked. I’d do anything for Marlboro Man. “Can you be here around five?” he asked. “In the evening…right?” I responded, hopeful. He chuckled. Oh, no. This was going to turn out badly for me. “Um…no,” he said. “That would be five A.M.” I sighed. To arrive at his ranch at 5:00 A.M. would mean my rising by 4:00 A.M.--before 4:00 A.M. if I wanted to shower and make myself presentable. This meant it would still be dark outside, which was completely offensive and unacceptable. There’s no way. I’d have to tell him no. “Okay--no problem!” I responded. I clutched my stomach in pain. Chuckling again, he teased, “I can come pick you up if you need me to. Then you can sleep all the way back to the ranch.” “Are you kidding?” I replied. “I’m usually up by four anyway. That’s when I usually do my running, as you well know.” “Uh…huh,” he said. “Gotcha.” Another chuckle. Lifeblood to my soul.

The banishing of a leper seems harsh, unnecessary. The Ancient East hasn’t been the only culture to isolate their wounded, however. We may not build colonies or cover our mouths in their presence, but we certainly build walls and duck our eyes. And a person needn’t have leprosy to feel quarantined. One of my sadder memories involves my fourth-grade friend Jerry.1He and a half-dozen of us were an ever-present, inseparable fixture on the playground. One day I called his house to see if we could play. The phone was answered by a cursing, drunken voice telling me Jerry could not come over that day or any day. I told my friends what had happened. One of them explained that Jerry’s father was an alcoholic. I don’t know if I knew what the word meant, but I learned quickly. Jerry, the second baseman; Jerry, the kid with the red bike; Jerry, my friend on the corner was now “Jerry, the son of a drunk.” Kids can be hard, and for some reason we were hard on Jerry. He was infected. Like the leper, he suffered from a condition he didn’t create. Like the leper, he was put outside the village. The divorced know this feeling. So do the handicapped. The unemployed have felt it, as have the less educated. Some shun unmarried moms. We keep our distance from the depressed and avoid the terminally ill. We have neighborhoods for immigrants, convalescent homes for the elderly, schools for the simple, centers for the addicted, and prisons for the criminals. The rest simply try to get away from it all. Only God knows how many Jerrys are in voluntary exile—individuals living quiet, lonely lives infected by their fear of rejection and their memories of the last time they tried. They choose not to be touched at all rather than risk being hurt again.

It was a weird thing. Before the divorce, my mom had been kind of strict, the triplets constantly wrecking shit as she sternly tried to wrangle them. She had no patience for people who might complicate her life or create more work for her, was always rolling her eyes at how stupid everyone else was. She made checklists that no one else ever checked. She frowned a lot. I was slightly afraid of her, even though I knew that she loved me. And though I knew the divorce had messed her up, it had also seemed to relax her, like the bad thing had finally happened and she didn't have to keep waiting for it. She chilled out. The triplets, if they burned down the Dairy Queen, well, that was someone else's problem. If I invited some strange boy into our house and made out with him, who was she to intervene? We were eating pizza on a weekday. She was the coolest mom in Coalfield.

You know that I'm the owner of Curried Dreams, right? I inherited it as his wife." Her parents had never gotten divorced. Ashna remembered how guilty she had felt every time she prayed that they would. "I think it's time we sell it." Ashna dumped the paper towels in the garbage, hands shaking. The urge to press down, crush the garbage until it shrank to the bottom of the bin pushed inside her. "That's a new low, even for you." She gave in and jammed her hand into the garbage, pressing it down until it crushed and folded and smashed. "You already hate me. I might as well do what's right for you and risk you hating me more." "How is forcing me to give up my livelihood right for me?" She washed her hands to keep from shoving the garbage again. "If it weren't for Curried Dreams you would actually be looking for and doing something you enjoyed. You'd get out from that dark place your father thrust you into." Ashna was shaking now. All she wanted was to walk away. To crawl into bed. To get away from Shobi. The habit of walking away from things must be a hard one to break. Go to hell, Frederico Silva! "Curried Dreams is not a dark place. I can turn it around. I'm close to doing it." "You're not going to win that show. You don't even like being a chef! You can't win without passion." "Thanks, Mom. And not all of us are selfish enough to put ourselves and our damn passion before everything else!" Shobi gasped and Ashna sucked in her lips.

it isn’t also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn’t true. If a sermon promises health and wealth to the faithful, it isn’t true, because that theology makes God an absolute monster who only blesses rich westerners and despises Christians in Africa, India, China, South America, Russia, rural Appalachia, inner-city America, and everywhere else a sincere believer remains poor. If it isn’t also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn’t true. If doctrine elevates a woman’s married-with-children status as her highest calling, it isn’t true, because that omits single believers (whose status Paul considered preferable), widows, the childless by choice or fate or loss, the divorced, and the celibate gay. If these folks are second-class citizens in the kingdom because they aren’t married with children, then God just excluded millions of people from gospel work, and I guess they should just eat rocks and die. If it isn’t also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn’t true. Theology is either true everywhere or it isn’t true anywhere. This helps untangle us from the American God Narrative and sets God free to be God instead of the My-God-in-a-Pocket I carried for so long. It lends restraint when declaring what God does or does not think, because sometimes my portrayal of God’s ways sounds suspiciously like the American Dream and I had better check myself. Because of the Haitian single mom. Maybe I should speak less for God. This brings me to the question at hand, another popular subject I am asked to pontificate on: What is my calling? (See also: How do I know my calling? When did you know your calling? How can I get your calling? Has God told you my calling? Can you get me out of my calling?) Ah yes, “The Calling.” This is certainly a favorite Christian concept over in these parts. Here is the trouble: Scripture barely confirms our elusive calling—the bull’s-eye, life purpose, individual mission every hardworking Protestant wants to discover. I found five scriptures, three of which referred to

Divorce hadn’t devastated her. She’d felt awful for her son, but God, she’d felt free, and she’d hoped that a happy mom was more important for Sawyer than a married one.

As the very term implies, this is a court-ordered effort to get the weary old mom out of the house and back into the job market, so that she can contribute to her own support.

Kay wasn’t looking for true love. It was embarrassing to admit, but she wasn’t completely over her divorce. She just wanted an opportunity to take her social skills out for a spin every now and then. She needed to be sure Kay The Person, hadn’t been completely overtaken by Kay The Mom.

Not long after my mom died, my dad pretty much kicked me out of the house. He never said, “Get out of my house,” but instead, I came home one night to find all my clothes scattered all over our front lawn.

Thanksgiving A man calls his son on the phone the day before Thanksgiving and has a very important and startling conversation with him. “Son,” he says, “I have called to tell you that your mother and I are getting a divorce.  After 40 years of marriage I just can’t stand this anymore.  I am sick of her and can’t be in the same house with her any longer. We are finished.” “What are you talking about, you can’t leave mom?”  The son says. “Don’t try and change my mind, I have already decided.  We are getting the divorce tomorrow,” the father says, standing firm. The son is in total disbelief.   “You can’t do this dad.  We need to talk.  I am going to call my sister and we will fly there tonight and we will all talk it over tomorrow.”  And with that he hangs up. The father turns to his wife, smiles and says, “Our kids will be here for Thanksgiving and they are paying for their own way!

One of the most commonly heard excuses for divorce is that it’s “best for the children.” But what’s best for the children is seeing their mom and dad demonstrate unconditional love for each other, keep their commitments, work out their differences, forgive and preserve a legacy of endurance.

I remember sitting across from the doctor and her telling me, “You and Sam may not be husband and wife, but you will be Dad and Mom forever for your kids.

see, Drake, my mom and dad are divorced. So, my mom moved away when she got her new job. We weren’t really close, so I stayed with my dad.” I

Women may be afraid of strangers, but it's a husband, a lover, a boyfriend, or someone they know who is most likely to hurt them and they are at the highest risk of suffering violence or murder when they are divorcing or separating from

my mom, and she’s totally cool with it… Look she’s still going through a hard time right now—divorce. My dad’s basically a dick who cheated on her. So, if she’s, like, depressed or just staring at the pool like a zombie or something, it’s because of that." As they crossed the state line into Florida, Rob said, "And no thinking about Natalie.

Cynicism stares back at me, so much so that I can’t help but wonder how he remains standing from the weight of it. Even after my divorce, I’ve retained a certain level of hope. Inner peace. Perhaps it’s the mom in me—as lost as I’ve felt over the years, I’ve always had Topher as my due north. Letting my baby boy see my turmoil has never, ever been an option. No matter how bad things got with Rick.

Now my parents are divorced and I live in Connecticut with my mom and brother, but my dad still lives in California. All in all, I’ve flown back and forth across the country eleven times.

While pretty standard for many moms, this can be inappropriate for a stepmom, as she is still new in the children’s lives, and she is not their mother. It puts too much pressure on her, takes too much responsibility off Dad, and can engender resentment in the children.

Maybe you don’t know the southside of Chicago....I grew up in a house of addiction, poverty, Government assistance, Divorce, neglect, abandonment, and violence. This wasn’t a unique experience in my neighborhood. There was a club in my school, and everyone knew who its members were: there was no hiding it. From the stink of your unwashed clothes, to Kids cracking Jokes in the lunchroom about your mom or dad being an addict, or worse. Some kids came to school with fresh bruises every week. If you were in this club, other students would rip on you. This was to be expected I suppose. But the teachers also looked at you differently. Not with empathy or even pity. More like they looked through you, As if your future was already written on your dirty clothes, and your weary eyes, on your dark skin.

Dads, no matter your relationship with your kid’s mom, honor her this weekend. Mother’s Day isn’t about you or drama. It’s about her and her impact on your ids. Be grateful. Celebrate her… and if you can’t get out of your own way, do it for your kids.

I know that not every family is a clean-cut nuclear Mom and Dad at home situation - but I think every father needs to do whatever he can to be present in the lives of his kids. If you are in a situation where you have not been - fight for it. Don’t give up till you get it. Don’t be a jerk about it - don’t “fight” mom - but “fight” whatever things tell you to just give up. Send cards, make phone calls, pay your support, and do whatever you can to be present in the lives of your children.

George, please sit down,” Luke said. “Visit a while.” “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” George pulled a chair over from an empty table and sat right beside Maureen so that she was sandwiched between himself and Art. “What brings you back to town so soon?” he asked her. “I’m, ah, visiting.” “Fantastic,” he said. “A long visit, I hope.” Luke took his seat, chuckling as he did so. “I have a brother here right now—Sean. You might remember him as my best man. He just discovered he has a young daughter in the area. Mom is visiting us and getting to know her first granddaughter, Rosie, three and a half and smart as a whip.” “How wonderful!” George said enthusiastically. “You must be having the time of your life!” Maureen lifted a thin brow, wary of his reaction. “I am enjoying her, yes.” “First one? I suppose before too much longer the other boys will be adding to the flock.” “Only the married ones, I hope,” Maureen said. “Do you have grandchildren, Mr. Davenport?” “Oh, let’s not be so formal—I’m George. Only step-grandchildren. I had no children of my own, in fact. Noah’s the closest thing to a son I’ve ever had, but I started out as his teacher. I’m a professor at Seattle Pacific University. I’ve known him quite a few years now. I’m here to be his best man on Friday night. I hope you’re all coming to the wedding.” “Wouldn’t miss it,” Luke said, grabbing Shelby’s hand. “And…Maureen?” George asked pointedly. “I’m not sure,” she said evasively. “Well, try to come,” he said. “These Virgin River people know how to have a good time. In fact, I have an idea. Once I have my best-man duties out of the way, I suggest we go to dinner. I’ll take you someplace nice in one of the coast towns, though it’ll be hard to improve on Preacher’s cooking. But we deserve some time away from all these young people, don’t you think?” “Excuse me, George?” she asked. “I assume you were married?” “Twice, as a matter of fact. Divorced a long time ago and, more recently, widowed. My wife died a few years ago. Maybe we should pick an evening and exchange phone numbers,” he suggested. “That’s very nice of you, but no. I don’t go out with men.” “Really?” he asked, surprised by her immediate refusal. “And why is that?” “I’m a widow,” she said. “A single woman.” “What a coincidence. And I’m a single man. I’m all for free thinking, but I wouldn’t ask you to dinner were I married. Are you recently widowed?” Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Luke snicker and look away. “Yes,” Maureen said. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was under the impression it had been years. When did you lose your husband, Maureen?” She looked a bit shocked to be put on the spot like that. It was apparent she was trying to gather her wits. She put out her hand. “It was so nice to see you again, Mr….George. I’m glad you sat and visited awhile. Maybe I’ll see you at the wedding this weekend if I’m not needed for anything else. I should probably get on the road—I have to drive to Eureka.” She stood and George did, as well. “Eureka? You’re not staying here in Virgin River with your son?” “I’m staying with a friend just down the street from my granddaughter so I’m free to pick her up after preschool. We spend most afternoons together. Really, nice seeing you.” She turned to Luke. “I’m going to head back to Viv’s, Luke. Good night, Shelby. ’Night, Art. Thanks for dinner, it was great as usual.” “Wonderful seeing you, too,” George said. “Try to come to Noah’s wedding. I guarantee you’ll enjoy yourself.” Luke

Marvel and DC are my divorced mom and dad. DC is my stable, loving, nurturing mom. Marvel is my weird dad who lives in a condo and doesn’t know how to cook, but he’ll let you stay up until three in the morning watching RoboCop 2.

We all know that forty years of marriage is quite an accomplishment. It doesn’t just happen. It takes commitment and work. When I was about eleven, my best friend’s parents got divorced, and I asked my mom if she thought that was going to happen with her and my dad. She told me that she didn’t think so. “Well, we all know that I’m not one to drop something that easily so, of course, I asked her why she didn’t think so. And she told me that she and my dad had made a promise to each other to wake up every day and choose to love each other. Again, being who I am, I had to challenge that answer, so I told my mom, in all my eleven years of wisdom, that love is something you feel, not something you choose. “She looked down at me and smiled. Shaking her head, she said, ‘Oh, my sweet Nicoletta, yes, it is true that you feel love—most of the time. But after years of chores and kids and bills and life, there are some days we don’t feel the love, and those are the most important days to choose to love. “So Mom, Dad, I want to thank you for giving me an example of what real love is. It’s not just a feeling, it’s also a choice. Thank you for choosing each other every day. Happy anniversary!

The post-divorce lines around Gabby's mouth tugged down her whole face. She suddenly looks older. Older than the image Layla carries in her head. Of her mom back when she still wore a uniform, her dark hair in a high ballerina bun, gun at her waist, like the cops on TV. If safe was a person, her mom was it.

After all, as I walked down the aisle, I knew there was a very excellent chance of divorce. You did, too. We wear our seat belts and buy life insurance for far less risky propositions, and don bike helmets and cook meat to 160 degrees to be safe. Similarly, it is reasonable to expect everyone in a marriage to protect themselves financially in the likelihood of divorce.

When I was a newly single mom with a toddler and a newborn, I’d cringe when meeting new people, especially other young parents, none of whom seemed to be anything but blissfully orbiting in their nuclear family unit. I’d dance around any pressures (perceived or real) to reveal my marital status, until I’d burst, and a flood of unprompted details would pour out: “I’m-separated-yes-your-math-is-right-my-ex-moved-out-while-Iwas-pregnant-but-he-had-a-brain-injury-and-destabalized-so-it-is-an-unusual-situation-a-medical-crisis-he’sactually-a-very-good-person-I’m-not-angry-about-that-we-are-all-fine!

On alimony: "Why should it be your ex's responsibility to give you a lifestyle that you yourself cannot afford?

Work and money are not luxuries, and your children benefit in countless ways by having a proud, successful, financially comfortable mother. Go earn, and never look back.

What Children Need to Know Although children at different ages are able to grasp varying levels of what divorce means, it’s best to keep all conversations brief, direct, and factual. Children don’t need to hear what caused the breakup or a recitation of all your partner’s character flaws. There may be a later time to be more transparent about the reasons for the divorce, but this conversation is not the place. The purpose of this first conversation is to inform them that the divorce is happening, let them know how much you care for them, make them feel safe, and discuss any details you have sorted out about living and visitation arrangements. These are shatteringly difficult conversations, and your first reaction is to want to take your child’s pain away, but pat answers or reassurances like “it will be okay” or “things will be fine” aren’t helpful. Everyone knows that things are going to be different, and these types of responses can make children feel like their anxieties are being dismissed. The goal here should be to give age-appropriate information and reassurances. Younger children typically require more discussion around security, that mom and dad both love them and that they are not to blame in any way. Older children may be more concerned about living arrangements and how their social life will be impacted. They may also have been expecting it, and in cases where marital conflict was high, they may even find it a relief. Primary

My senior year in high school, Mom and Dad went through a divorce. After I graduated, my mother took my brother and moved to Wisconsin. We had relatives there. My dad was always busy at work, and I was left alone most of the time. I had the house all to myself. I never really had any close friends in school; I was kind of a loner and pretty shy around people. My parents were not big drinkers, but they kept a fully stocked bar in the home. I was lonely and started to drink. It made me feel better; I could talk to people and fit in, but I wasn’t that good at it and I’d usually end up drunk and alone in my house. I’m sure it was at this time that I began to develop feelings of not wanting to be alone, especially at night. It seemed as if everybody was leaving me. My father had started a new relationship with my current stepmother and spent a lot of time at her house. He said that I was old enough to take care of myself, so I ended up alone. I hated it. I didn’t like sleeping alone in that big house. It made me angry. I started to have fleeting fantasies of killing someone. I don’t know where they came from, but they did. They were always intertwined, sex and killing. I tried to get them out of my mind, but the sexual fantasy was powerful and I masturbated for hours thinking about it. The fantasy was always the same. I met a good-looking man, brought him home, had sex with him, and then killed him.

Mom filed for divorce. In the counselor's office, my parents claimed that we would always be a family because of me, but things would be better now. No more yelling, no more arguments. By tearing our family apart, they were actually making it stronger. By the time I figured out that they were not making any sense, the family counseling was done and Dad was walking down the aisle with Jennifer.

Long divorced, a real estate agent whose social life included lovers (occasionally married), Susan was haunted by the gap between the sensation of three boys climbing her torso like a tree, combing sticky fingers through her hair, muttering into her ears—and the constraint of adulthood: How are you, honey? You look a little tired. Is there anything I can do? How about a hug for your old mom? If she’d had an inkling, back then, of the ache this constraint would cause her, she would never—not once!—have said, “Let go of me, boys, I just need a minute,” and shaken them off. She would have held still and let them pick her clean, understanding that there would be nothing better to save herself for.

She took a sip of her margarita. “It’s all about leverage, darling. My mom taught me that during the divorce. You figure out what they want, and you threaten to destroy it if they don’t meet your terms.

Layla sighed. “Mom, can we maybe talk about some stuff tonight? I'll send Donny on his way, and I can ride with you.” “Tonight? Oh, sweetie, can we talk about it in the morning? You'll see things differently then anyway.” Layla's mother dug in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Layla's heart sank. “Are you going out?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. “I've got a date,” her mom said, a distracted smile lighting her face as she scrolled through her text messages. A too-familiar pressure tightened in Layla's chest. She lowered her voice and said angrily, “You and Daddy are not divorced! He's coming back!” She and her mother had had this conversation far too many times. “Layla, I'm not going to marry the guy. We've been over this! I just deserve a little fun in my life,” her mother replied in exasperation. “Well, I hope you take a shower before you go out,” Layla lashed back. “You stink of chicken grease!” “And I bothered to hurry over and see you!” Mrs. Ridgewood fumed. “Tell Donovan to have you home at a decent hour.” Her eyes stinging with tears, Layla looked around and hoped no one had heard their conversation. The lobby was almost empty. Justin was leaning against a table, waiting for his dad, but he wasn't looking her way.

The major TV networks at the time all aired some version of melodramatic afternoon programming for teens. ABC called its afternoon movie series After School Specials, and CBS called their version Schoolbreak. NBC went with Special Treat, which, given the content of these shows, strikes me now as darkly comic. I rarely managed to watch one of these programs in its entirety because I wasn’t allowed to turn on the television during homework time, but occasionally I’d sneak a half hour. They ranged from mild domestic drama, like “Divorced Kids’ Blues,” to more sensational stories, such as “Are You My Mother?,” in which a girl finds out the mom she thought was dead is actually alive and in some kind of institution. Then there were episodes like these: “One Too Many”—one of several specials about drunk-driving accidents. “Don’t Touch”—a variation on the theme that abuse can come at you from any direction: a sitter, a parent, an uncle, a family friend… (See also, and I swear I’m not making this up: “Please Don’t Hit Me, Mom.”) “Andrea’s Story: A Hitchhiking Tragedy”—What happened to Andrea when she accepted a ride from a stranger? Well, it wasn’t good at all, I can tell you that. “A Very Delicate Matter”—Guess what? The matter is gonorrhea. “Tattle: When to Tell on a Friend”—Answer: as soon as you notice their interest in cocaine.

Then she grabbed a pen and signed the divorce papers. Dad was getting out, Mom was getting out, and Sloan was getting out too.

There is no 'winning' in this, it is not a competition. Mom doesn’t have to better than Dad, and Dad doesn’t have to be better than Mom. It’s not as if you are the only fun, creative, and huggable one, leaving less for the other parent to claim, as there can be shared qualities between you two.

A question, Counselor,” she said. “If Mom had told the truth, what would Dad have done?” “I’ve been thinking of nothing else. I’m sure he would have divorced her and run her out of the county. He would have sworn revenge against Jupe, but then he’s safe in Chicago. Different laws up north.” “But she would be alive, wouldn’t she?” “I guess. Who knows?” “But Dad would certainly be alive.” “Yes, along with Dexter Bell. And we would have our land.

My friends stopped talking to me, my parents got a divorce, and my mom and Mr. Ruiz moved to Texas. Being that I was fifteen with my world falling apart, I chose to stay in the only place I felt at home: with my dad and his free cheese fries.

That unwavering devotion has always intrigued me. People commit to an artist’s music in a way they won’t to a relationship or a career. It’s a constant in their lives, no matter what else changes. My earliest memories are of my parents dancing in the kitchen to Etta James. My mom listened to those same songs my senior year of high school, over a decade after they got divorced.

Ho. All the shame a woman carried. How mom branded the word unto her heart. AZADA AZADA AZADA! But what use was a garden tool, I railed, when the Perez women had divorced mother nature? Abuela’s gandules harvest, over. Mom’s circle of sage, dead. My horse farm woods, gone. Ripped and rent from all soil, we who had once been earth-women and were now North Philly—treeless rubble, tire-strewn and derelict. But wait. Hadn’t one plot of land persisted? Migrated with us all this way? One human-size patch of earth? Our bodies. I am tired soil, break me, wound me. I AM A WHORE….

the divorce she made a noise that sounded like an empathy orgasm, then pulled me to her chest and cradled my head like a child’s. ‘You must be devastated,’ she said, petting my hair in a way that was not unenjoyable but was not the romp I had hoped for, from the glint. ‘This must be such a dark time for you. I’m a Highly Sensitive Person, so you don’t need to tell me, I get it.’ I did not think it required a person to be highly sensitive to know that divorce was painful, but more than that, I did not want to talk about it with Tamara. I kissed her for a minute or two, and it was going well until she made the noise again, then pulled away and said, ‘Poor little bird.’ I told her I was okay, mostly, that I knew nothing worthwhile came easy and was taking it one day at a time. In reality, life since my mom’s house had felt very dark indeed, more or less blurring into one long nap punctuated by cereal and episodes of Housewives; but I did not share this, because I did not want to be this woman’s bird. She poured us each a glass of water and told me a lengthy anecdote about her friend’s bike accident, labouring particularly hard over the doctor’s instruction that – should this friend ever find herself hurtling over her handlebars on Roncesvalles Avenue again – she not brace for impact. ‘You have to go limp and let it happen,’ she said softly. ‘You can’t fight it, or you’ll break every bone in your body.’ She was rocking me back and forth at this point, but getting a cab at that hour, on New Year’s, would have been impossible, so when she slid her hand under my shirt, I pretended to be asleep. The next morning we lay around in her bed, where, to avoid further cycling metaphors, I asked her to tell me the twist endings

That was the end of church for Mom. She retained custody of the kids, and Dad got custody of God.

My deep desire for motherhood was a yearning that overshadowed any accomplishment I could claim as mine.

When the walls reverberated with the innocent laughter and joy that children bring to the present moment without the baggage of the past or worries about the future, a great weight lifted from my shoulders.

In the proper fashion of divorced mothers, during her sane, lucid moments my mother would, of course, pay lip service to the idea that I ought to have a relationship with my father. Everybody needs and deserves a mommy and a daddy. In reality, she didn’t want me to get too close to him. She wanted him around, but only in his rightful, Saturday-afternoon place. And who could blame her? How could my mom tell me, whom she loved more than anyone else in the world, that she wanted me to have a good relationship with my father, whom she hated more than anyone else on earth, and not get found out? Ditto my dad.

I was already missing large parts of Shreya’s life by being away at work for long hours and because of her weekends with her father. Yet I had never considered sending her away either for her benefit or mine. We were yoked together by biology and karma. Our situation was not ideal, but at least we had each other.

Could she be happy outside my daily, direct control? The answer was yes. It was a blow to my ego, but it was true. The epiphany lifted a great weight off my shoulders. Even though I could not understand the grand scheme of things, I could see what was truly important when I applied a simple filter—my child’s well-being—to the situation.

You don’t know it, but these are the last moments of the brief courtship you get to have with yourself as a female human being in 1990s America, a courtship in which you do not “love yourself” or “hate yourself” (because those terms would not have made sense to you) but instead have a profound sense of satisfaction with the world around you and your apparent role in it. Then something happens to you. It’s not a single-event trauma. Your parents do not get divorced. No one dies. You are not abused. And yet. Something happens to you. And because you cannot trace what happens to you to a single, traumatic event, you struggle to explain it, struggle for years to admit that anything happened to you at all. But it did. It’s obvious, visible in your face, your posture. A friend in middle school tells you that her mom has asked her, “What happened to Jessica?” What happened to you? It’s a big fish of a question, large and slippery. When you are twelve years old, a book titled Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls becomes a national best-seller. The author, Mary Pipher, writes, “Something dramatic happens to girls in early adolescence. Just as planes and ships disappear mysteriously into the Bermuda Triangle, so do the selves of girls go down in droves.” Pipher argues that while adolescence has always been a difficult transition for boys and girls alike, there is something in the cultural air of the early 1990s that has spawned an epidemic of depression, self-mutilation, and eating disorders.

I wanted to forgive my mom and my dad so badly for the deep hurt they caused, the fear their broken marriage invoked in me, but I also didn’t want to pretend anymore. Pretending is exhausting.

My dad called the cops and told them I stole his car.” I roll my eyes. “Your old man put you in this hellhole? On purpose?” “He thought it would teach me a lesson.” “Yeah,” I say. “The lesson is that your old man’s an asshole.” The dad should have taught his son how to dress better instead. “My mom’ll bail me out.” “You sure?” White Guy straightens. “She’s a lawyer, and my dad’s done this before. A few times. I think to piss off my mom and get her attention. They’re divorced.” I shake my head. White people.

February 20 I still can’t get the divorce out of my mind. How do I help? Today I realize my helplessness. I can’t fix Brian’s marriage. I can’t fix my body. I don’t know why I ever thought I could control the things around me. Today I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore. When did I stop making decisions? I’ve become so accustomed to trying to please everyone or trying to impress others that I don’t even know what Susan wants. Lord,

Some Tomorrows Never Come. I opened my eyes. I cried. I walked. Then stumbled. Then walked some more. I learned to read. Did homework. Complained. Fought with my parents. Went to college after losing the fight. My friend Randy came to college with me. I did homework. Complained. Met Marcia. Smiled. Understood my parents had been right. Didn’t tell them. Marcia betrayed me. Randy betrayed me. I never actually said goodbye to either one. I figured they didn’t deserve even that. Dropped out of school. "For a while," I said. Cancer took Dad quickly. I never told him he had been right all along. I realized I should at least tell Mom. I didn’t. Went back to college. Graduated. Got a job. Got fired. My boss didn’t like me. There was nothing I could do. I wasted a year. I wanted to prove to them that I wouldn’t be affected by losing my job. I got another job. I left that job to start a business with Ed. We were successful. Ed never respected me like I deserved. I sold my share. His loss, I told myself. I married Pam. We were happy. Pam and I had Elisa. She was happy. I didn’t hurt for the need of money. But Pam still wanted me to go back to work. We weren’t happy. She didn’t respect me like I deserved. Pam and I divorced. She expected me to do all the work when it came to seeing Elisa. I resented her for it. I was not going to let her force me into things anymore. I didn’t see Elisa that often. Mom died. I never did have that conversation with her. I grew old. I didn’t have that much money anymore. Maybe Pam wasn’t entirely wrong. She seemed pretty happy with George. I heard Elisa call him “Dad” one day. Cancer came for me quickly. “I’m sorry, I can’t get over to the hospital after all, something came up. Maybe this weekend?” Elisa said. She had no idea how far away that weekend really was to me. It might as well have been an eternity. From a certain perspective, it was. She hung up without saying goodbye. Later, it was hard to breathe. I looked around the empty room. Oh, God, I wish I hadn’t carried the anger with me. I closed my eyes.

Why didn’t you go after her?” His father’s deep voice confronted his cowardice. Michael stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, slumping his shoulders in the process as a child being scolded. He could not look at his father, he knew all too well the disapproving glare that was bound to chastise him. “Love isn’t easy, Son.” His father’s hand on his shoulder offered understanding and friendship, far from the reprove he expected. “But it is for you and mom.” “No, Son, it isn’t.” His father admitted. “I think we need to talk. How about ordering us a pizza, while I settle in.” Guiding his son back to the house, Joseph felt the prick of thorns from the guilt of past mistakes. “I can’t believe you and mom almost divorced.” Michael shook his head in disbelief at the story his father had shared with him. “We came very close. Thankfully, my father, your grandfather, sat me down and shared his own marital struggles with me. None of us are exempt from them. I know you and Abigail are not talking marriage yet, but I see the way you look at her and I know, that it is just a matter of time. Love is a commitment, Michael, not a contract.” Joseph sat his empty coffee cup down on the table and spoke honestly with his son. “Either you love her enough to fight for her, or you don’t love her at all.” “I do love her.” “Then fight for her, Michael. That includes forgiving her, not just once, but each time she messes up.” Standing, Joseph handed Michael his Bible. “I have marked two passages I want you to read. Start with Isaiah 53 and end with 1 Corinthians 13. I think you will find your answers there.” Reaching his hand down to his boy, Joseph pulled him up into his embrace. “Sleep well, Son. Your mom and I are praying for you.

All I’ve ever wanted was to go pro ever since my dad first put me in hockey when I was 7. Some of the other kids go to fancy hockey camps in the summer and practice with the best coaches, but I never could. My folks are divorced and even working two jobs, my mom could barely keep up with the rent, so my hockey fees were partly subsidized and my dad paid the rest. There was no money available to help my performance. I had to earn my chops on the ice by myself.

Mike and I have lived with Dad every since my mom took off when she was 7. They got divorced a year later. I love my mom and I know she loves Mike and me. Of course, I haven’t seen her in ages, but that’s just because she’s such a creative person and creative people need space. At least, some of them do.

Mom was a schoolteacher and I was her most challenging student. Throughout my life, Mom’s lessons have helped me survive it all: scandal, love, marriages, divorces, disappointments, children, death, failures, sucess. I’m still learning. Mom has yet to say, “I told you so.

A few years ago, I was desperate to have a fertile, round-bellied body like hers. But now I understood that if I had gotten pregnant, I would have been dealing with Hugh’s infidelity, coping with a toxic level of stress at the height of my vulnerability. That’s what Kelly was facing. My life would have gone one of two ways: either I would have divorced Hugh and become a single mom, or stayed and raised a child in a marriage filled with mistrust and resentment. I did not envy Kelly. For the first time, I entertained the idea that I’d gotten off easy with Hugh.