My son and his dad are moving out of the house that he and his sister were raised in. My son has lived in that house for over 16 years-something I’m exceptionally proud of.
When his dad and I divorced I knew I couldn’t afford to live in the house and pay the mortgage on my own. And I knew my son needed to live with his dad. But what happened immediately after was my son’s dad’s parents had to be moved and 6 months later Grandpa moved in with my son and his dad.
Today I helped my son pack up his life in the only home he’s ever known. It was emotionally triggering for everyone involved. It was hard for me to see the house, to recognize where I still was and where I wasn’t. It was just hard.
This is a broken tribe. When you get divorced your tribes split into factions like Hunger Games. Some align with one partner, some with the other. And it can feel like a fight to the death.
My kids’ dad and I never manipulate to hurt. And we allow for clarity and time to change things. We are honest with each other and live with careful boundaries.
But it still hurts. Seeing this house go away hurts. Seeing it in less than perfect shape is tough.
But it’s just what it is.
I helped my son pack up all his figurines and collectibles and tacks and posters and stickers and mementos from the room we built in the garage conversion 8 years ago. He’s used to having an autonomous space and now he’s going into living up stairs across the hall from his dad.
He’ll get used to it, and I know once he’s set up there he’ll love how close the new space is to downtown.
But today is sad and exhausting. And there is joy in knowing what is to come for him and his dad has got to be better. They deserve it.
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