Confession: sometimes I look over at one of my sons rolling in the grass, or over at my daughter eating her Popsicle in the evening twilight, and something heavier than the sky slams into my chest like a cannonball.
I divorced their mom. And she divorced me.
We created three beautiful children together. Then we shattered the marriage. We broke the vows.
And we took things to a whole new level.
Even before I was divorced, I spent a lot of time wondering if staying together and keeping the nuclear family under one roof wasn’t the right way to go. You need to do everything you can to save your marriage, some people said. For the kids.
I get that. Heck, for almost an entire year of separation I nearly drove myself insane pondering that notion. This time last year, the reality of my failing marriage haunted me, choked the life out of me. And yet, I just kept telling myself that the divorce would be unfair to the kids. It would kill them.
But some time has passed now. Certain things will always be a mystery when it comes our particular love and why it grows or dies. But one thing is clear to me now: