I was 19 years old when my mum took me on a walk to tell me that she and my dad would be getting a divorce [1]. I was on Summer break after my freshman year of college, and I was visiting their new home in Colorado that they had just moved to with my little sister about six months prior. I don't remember crying or getting emotional during the conversation; instead, I can really only recall listening quietly before finally muttering the word, "OK."
When I got on a plane the following week to return to my apartment in a small college town in Alabama, I put in my headphones and allowed my thoughts to drift back to some of my favourite memories from childhood [2]. I thought about the time we hiked the Grand Canyon as a family and my sister and I repeatedly recited lines from Family Holiday, the year I was obsessed with Bisquick and made the family some sort of dinner from the baking mix's cookbook every Thursday night, and how, every year on the day after Thanksgiving, I set up the bulky camcorder and demanded everyone decorate the Christmas tree while the Santa Claus is Comin' to Town soundtrack blared in the background. I let the nostalgia wash over me, but when the flight attendant announced our initial descent, I cut off the flow of memories.
I continued on with life as normal, cramming for tests and staying out a little too late with my friends. I didn't talk about my parents very much, mostly because I wanted to avoid the look of pity on other people's faces and the inevitable question of "Are you OK?" I was perfectly fine, I told myself. Apathetic, even. I grew distant from everyone in my immediate family, even my younger sister, whom I always had a superclose relationship with.
The process took some time before it was finalized (as is typical, from what I understand), and I had just turned 21 when the divorce became official. By then, I had gotten close with each member of my family again, but besides a few conversations with my mum, I still didn't talk about the situation with any of them very often. For a while when I looked back on this time, I thought I was intentionally depriving myself of any emotion toward the experience to avoid feeling pain. We were once such a strong family unit; if I allowed myself to grieve, would I completely break down?
One day, after a few glasses of wine, my dad and I had a candid and heartfelt conversation [4], and he opened up to me about everything. It was really the first time we had ever talked about it — how he was doing, how I was doing, why it happened, etc. While not a stoic man by any means, I had never seen my dad be so vulnerable and honest, and he told me they tried to work it out [5] for the sake of my sister and me. That conversation stayed with me for a long time, and I eventually realised that, while I appreciated and loved both of them for being so sensitive to the feelings of their children, as their child, I just wanted them to be happy. If that meant not having my parents stay together, then that was perfectly OK.
A few weeks later, for the first time, I let myself fully grieve the dissolution of our family [7] unit as I had always known it. I cried it out, but after that cathartic moment, I genuinely felt happy.
Today, both of my parents are remarried to wonderful people. I have been lucky to develop superclose relationships with each of their partners, and they are family to me now. My sister and I were given five additional siblings to confide in, laugh with, and share holiday memories. Every time I'm around my parents, I can visibly see the joy they both found in their new spouses.
I still love thinking about my childhood memories of the four of us together. I smile when I remember the times my parents laughed with one another or made inside jokes that my sister and I begged to know the meaning behind. People still ask me at times if there's a part of me that wishes my parents would've worked things out. To them, I merely smile and say that I wouldn't change a thing. And I genuinely wouldn't.