Illustration by Chelsea O'Byrne
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In late summer, we failed out of mediation.
“There’s no we, any more, Maureen, there’s just you and there’s him,” the mediator said.
I heard the words, but everything that came out of my mouth was still: “I know, but we decided …” “I know, but when we talked about it …” “Yes, but we thought you should know..”
“Practice saying I,” she said.
She had me slowly mouth the words. It was like teaching me a new language. Yes, our lives were moving in different directions. Yes, he was going to be better. Yes, I was going to be better. Yes, he was going to find someone new. Yes, I was going to find someone new. We were going to become radiant white light, new constellations. But after 16 years, we certainly weren’t going to let someone sitting in an office downtown tell us that there was no “we” any more.
We left her office. We went for lunch. He texted me later. I called. We wanted to hold our children in our shared community, values, and dreams. Turbulence in the marriage made us rethink the nuptials, but we never second guessed wanting to do right by each other. We would separate, we said, even if we had to do it together.
We had taught three children how to walk, and now we were going to teach each other how to fly. We had a brilliant marriage. We were going to be brilliant co-parents. The future seemed bright, even as we – in his words – had blown up our lives.
Our teenager was off to college, the littlest ones were finishing elementary school. They understood what was happening was for the greater good.
At my house, they got mini-muffins in an extra high cupboard. At his house, they had TVs in their rooms. That fall, I practised saying, “I.” The days he kept the kids stretched long. I went to the grocery store and bought raspberries and baby carrots, and mozzarella that the little one really liked. I couldn’t remember what an adult diet consisted of.
But as the community mourned the passing of our coupledom, I was left with a misplaced sense of grief. “I’m so sorry,” they said. “That’s terrible,” they said. Friends scattered furiously to take sides. “There’s no sides,” I argued, “it’s just better for everyone.” But the rumour mill cranked out the stories, and people just lapped it up. And it began to hurt, like it hadn’t before. My girlfriends were furious. “Who’s taking the house?” they asked. “Have you signed the papers yet?”
Despite our good intentions, the first Christmas apart stung. We argued over the Christmas card. The kids picked the photos, I added a glittery trim, and it arrived in the mail. “The picture of us together is misleading,” he said, “You can’t send it out.” Furthermore, he asked me to trim my list, to leave his family out of it and take “his friends” off, 20-year-long friendships blown off into the gold dust
I wrote a holiday letter that was brilliant, honest, and raw. And didn’t send it. The theme that was developing was that even friends and family needed a curated, presentable version of the truth. A casual dispatch. We like our mistletoe with a side of gingerbread and peppermint. We don’t talk about the fudge that never set, the year we burned the chocolate. I knew I had to hit the Christmas card reset button, but I just didn’t know how.
I felt lost in this new postmarriage relationship. Even though we had chosen this upper path of clarity and respect, it seemed like our community wasn’t ready for it. People’s responses were sharp-witted, pointed. Everyone had an angle. “She really messed that up, didn’t she?” “He couldn’t have known, could he?” This caused heartbreak, this caused division.
We broke down the holiday hour by hour, making sure each of our families had a share. It was the opposite of bringing families together, it was the systematic plan to tear a family apart. Checks and balances were installed at every stage of the way. Santa became a spreadsheet. The family traditions were hijacked by both of us. Blood pressure went up.
I would be wrong if I didn’t admit that I made mistakes along the way. My hot temper got me into trouble more than a few times. The impatience of transition clouded the paperwork, and the finite details of our separation agreement kept me awake at night. Sixteen years times three children, times many wonderful memories, times houses and businesses, minus arguments, minus power, and minus control, divided by two.
It would take time, and eventually, we had to school our lawyers, too. “Dear lawyers, here’s what we would like to do.”
This season, I’ll remember that you can always keep the peace and that there’s always magic in the air for all those who can see it.
Mo Duffy Cobb lives in Charlottetown.