A letter to my daughter about divorce
Any parent, going through a divorce, can’t help but feel concerned about their children. Here, a mum writes her five-year-old daughter a heartfelt letter revealing the complicated, painful truth behind the split with her daddy …
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To my gorgeous girl,
I love looking at you sleeping.
The sight makes me smile to myself.
The contradiction of seeing your beautiful face – upturned nose with freckles spilt across your nose, baby blonde hair, fanned across the pillow. And then the sound of your (surprisingly loud!) snore.
My beautiful, little baby. No, sorry, I mean my beautiful, big girl. You’re five now. No baby.
Growing up. Growing up faster than you should.
The reason I am padding around your bedroom, packing clothes into your favourite Elsa backpack, pushes into my subconscious – an unwelcome intrusion.
Tomorrow, after I have cooked you your favourite Saturday breakfast – pancakes with Nutella - I will button you up in your coat, and hand you your backpack.
I know there will be a knock on the door any minute, because Daddy said he would text before, to make sure you're ready. Knowing Daddy, it will be to the point:
'Just approaching. Get her ready'.
We’ve agreed it should be like this, to minimise fuss.
Mummy and Daddy are not together any more. And we never will be again.
The shock of a new situation
It’s a situation I’m barely used to myself. After all, Daddy, the man who I vowed to love and honour, has been the centre of my world for 10 years.
He is the person who gave me the most precious thing in my life – I’m talking about you, my darling little girl.
In the circumstances, I can’t really complain.
After all, the reason Daddy doesn’t live here any more, the reason he hasn’t been joining us for Nutella pancakes lately, is because I’d had enough.
I wonder whether you noticed how bad things got? Because, we tried very hard to keep our problems away from you. It was the one thing we agreed on.
I grew up in a shouty house where slammed doors and raised voices were a way of life.
We wanted things to be perfect for you
Perhaps in retrospect, that was the problem. Trying to sugar coat unhappiness will never work.
You might have picked up on my strained voice, when daddy was annoying the hell out of me.
Or subconsciously noted the way the laughter felt sucked out of the house whenever we were all together.
One day, I know we’ll have to have the conversation. You will ask me:
"Why did Daddy and you split up?"
There’s the Parental Guidance version – the one we told you last week, when we sat down on the sofa, and I snuggled you into me. I couldn’t stop kissing the top of your head, do you remember?
Daddy joined in the cuddle, both our faces were wet from the tears that had seeped out after I had said the words:
"Mummy and Daddy think we’ll get on better living apart. We still love you so much."
You may not have realised this, but that bear hug where we held each other for an age, was the first time mummy and daddy had touched each other in seven months.
You’ve seen the pictures of our wedding.
Daddy, scooping me up, almost getting overwhelmed by my billowy wedding dress. Me, laughing; our guests, cheering.
You were born into love.
So what happened?
We couldn't reach each other
There was a distancing. Like we were under water and couldn’t reach each other. Then all of a sudden, we were too far apart to catch each other.
Yes, there were other things going on.
Daddy had a new business, which meant he had to work really hard. I, on the other hand, was at home every day.
I wanted someone to talk to. I was head over heels in love with my gorgeous little girl, but I needed a grown up to share the magical moments with. And your Daddy didn’t seem to want to be there for me.
The more I pushed. The more distant he seemed to be.
Contempt, like a malignant splinter, set in to our love.
I have to own my piece of this – what I did that broke our love.
Sarcastic comments would shoot out of my mouth before I could button them in. Rage would simmer, when he worked late, again.
Micro-aggressions were my weapons of choice. Not making him a cup of tea when he walked in the door. Not asking him about his day. Not being a lover, in the true sense of the world.
For Daddy’s part, there were his caustic ‘jokes’ at my expense – my weight, my shortcoming as a cook, the fact the house was always a tip.
'Can't you even get this right?'
The message, was, I felt, ‘You’re at home. Can’t you even get this right?’’
Daddy took to going to bed very late. Watching box sets late in the night. We became like strangers, an awkward room share.
Then, two weeks ago, I’d had enough.
There wasn’t even a row, although my darling, there were enough of them – albeit, confined to after you were tucked up in bed.
A row takes passion. It’s when the rowing stops. That’s when you’re on dangerous ground.
I just looked at him. He was eating a cheese sandwich and surfing for footie results on the iPad. Like lots of other dads throughout the country.
But I just knew. Knew I didn’t want to be with him next year. Or the year after. Or ever.
While you were in bed, Mummy and Daddy were sat on the sofa, cups of tea going cold on the coffee table.
I went first:
"I’ve had enough. I can't do this any longer."
I then said the words which were half true.
"I don’t love you anymore."
The whole truth is a cliché, which I didn't dare say.
"I love you but I’m not in love with you."
Thing is, just because it’s a cliché doesn’t mean to say it’s not true.
That night was the worst evening ever. The misery of the past year got regurgitated up. After months of silence came the tsunami of pain.
There were hurtful things said that night. Blame. Recriminations. It ended up with Daddy slamming the door, and going to spend the night with an old friend.
I felt spent. I’d cried all my tears. There was just numbness.
The next day, he returned. Tired. Defeated. Resigned.
He said:
"I’m moving in with a mate."
I nodded slowly. I didn’t even dare register what I was feeling.
The day before he left, that’s when we told you. And after our tear-drenched hug? You looked up at us.
"Can I still have a birthday party?"
Mummy and Daddy spluttered with laughter. Of course. Of course!
And now, here we are. You’re off for your first sleepover at Daddy’s new house.
After I tuck the last sock into your Elsa bag, I plant a light kiss on your forehead.
It will be fine
Despite the heavy sorrow, I feel lighter, brighter than before.
I am almost certain Daddy feels it, too.
After that terrible night I told him I wanted out, something interesting has happened – Daddy has started looking at me in the eye again.
This gives me hope.
We’re not perfect. But I know we want to be the best parents we can be.
The shock of our failure as a couple makes me so determined to achieve this.
I make a silent vow to you:
"Everything now, it’s for you."
And with that, I zip up the Elsa rucksack, and silently pad out of your bedroom.
Love you always, darling,
Mummy xxxxxxxx
