A while back, I listened to a T.D. Jakes sermon about families torn apart by divorce. Something he said struck me hard. He said that everyone bleeds when this happens, the couple as well as the children, everyone bleeds. That imagery was so raw. When we think about it, divorce can be very similar to a surgery, the precise cutting away of a life that will cease to exist in one way and patched together (hopefully) to function in a new way. But the scars remain… There is a tearing away of flesh on all sides. No one is spared. Even in mutual friends and in-laws must adjust. People you love subtly asked to pick a side. The wreckage is brutal at times. There is no easy way that leaves us unscathed. It doesn’t exist. Everyone bleeds.
I was five years old when my Daddy left. I remember the day vividly. It was Easter morning. Mami was getting our dresses ready to have dinner with our family at my Abuelita’s house. Food smells and morning rituals wafted in the air. I sat quietly on the toilet watching Papi shave. I admired his precision and patience as he carefully removed his prickly stubble. He began to talk in between the rasping noise of the blade. He kept a calm tone, he didn’t choke or waver in any way. He didn’t sound afraid or angry. He sounded simply informative and soft. He told me he would be staying with my uncle for a while. That he would always be here for me and my sister, a detail that seemed way to heavy for my five year old heart. He simply would not live in the same house with us anymore. Everything would change in this moment.
In my small mind I began to connect the dots. Papi had just arrived the night prior back from a trip to Florida that he took alone. The night before their bedroom door was closed, covering their faces but not muffling their yelling. We were too close to miss it as we got tucked into the sofa bed by our Abuelita. The living room was just across their bedroom. Our proximity to the moment that would tear our family apart for good separated by a weak door. Abuelita handed me my hot chocolate and I asked what they were yelling about. She replied that they were likely fighting over what my mother would wear to Easter dinner the next day. We would get our annual Easter baskets via Daddy drive by. I was so confused. All I had known was altered. A togetherness among us all that would take decades to mend.
A while later, Papi took us for the weekend. He had a small and very clean apartment. It had a sun-filled, bright kitchen but it still didn’t feel like home. Such odd displacement to have breakfast at a table without our Mami. I remember a small living room with orange walls that made me feel like I was inside of a flame. I felt hot anytime I sat on the couch. My baby sister was so little, I think she had just begun walking. I remember her discovering the rooms in our new weekend oasis in her fleece onesie sleeper. She seemed to adapt quickly as I sat with such confusion. She didn’t know my parents together as one for very long. Me waking them up to ask them for cereal and milk on Saturday mornings as they attempted to sleep in. She would not remember the parties they threw together that filled our living room with what felt like every neighbor on our block. Everyone dancing to my Dad’s impeccable play list. He was so proud of their record collection and loud speakers. Heels and big hair. Papi made sure Mami was dolled up for every occasion. My baby sister would not get to see that for long, if she could remember at all. Everything after that Easter morning felt like a blur of uncertainty and division.
My baby sister and I were so blessed with a Papi who remained present and consistent after the divorce. The two critical pieces beyond love and provision that parents can give. Presence and consistency. We could set a clock every other Friday practically down to the minute we knew Papi was pulling up in front of our house to spend the weekend with him. The routine became reliable. We had pizza or spaghetti (the ONLY thing he knew how to make at the time), a movie and bedtime. Saturdays we usually went on some sort of adventure. Parks, playdates and walks. Oh, and ice cream, there was always ice cream.
Several years later, Papi was not well, emotionally. He temporarily moved back into our home. I had no real understanding of why but all of a sudden, our bedroom became his. Mami would still have us sleep in there on the nights he never made it home. Confusion and unrest filled the air again. They seemed to be getting along well but Papi was far from ok. Then came the moment Papi felt I needed to be informed of. This time, there was no calm in his voice. He was on the floor, face first, sobbing. My Mother was kneeling over him and doing her best to console him. At one point, I could hear him pleading with my mother. He wanted to tell me something and Mami disagreed. Then he just let it come out of his mouth as he told me, “I am gay.” I don’t think I even knew exactly what it meant and had such limited exposure as to what the definition of that really meant. My parents had me in a Christian school, there was no conversation there about that. I suppose TV and eavesdropping was the extend of my education on homosexuality. My mother’s face loosened up. She was defeated and there was nothing left to say, she surrendered. Papi searched my face for a reaction and I honestly don’t remember feeling surprised or affected by this seemingly “big” news. It didn’t change who Papi was to ME. He was my Dad, my provider and protector. Who he loved seemed so insignificant to our relationship.
As an adult, I wonder how my Mother felt when he told her. Was she humiliated when she had to tell her family and friends? Did she question her femininity? Did she have her doubts or connections once she knew the truth? Did she question every “I love you” he spoke to her? My heart hurt for her. She was his wife for eleven years. Was it all a lie? I have also empathized deeply with my Father’s journey as a gay man living with such a huge secret. Denying who he was must have felt like a slow internal death. I regret never asking him what made him finally tell my Mother the truth. I am certain that was one of the hardest things he ever had to do, knowing it would rip us apart as a family and crush my Mother’s heart. He had to risk everything to be honest with each person he loved.
Seasons changed. The dust of the divorce began to settle and Papi insisted on helping Mami learn to drive and even dressed her for dates. My Mother learned to drive in her early 30’s and she would never, EVER drive on the highway, even later in life. We used to joke that it would take her days to get to us if we were ever stranded in another state. My parents began to hang out like old friends and we loved seeing them laugh in our living room together again. That didn’t last once my mother met her new boyfriend. He wasn’t comfortable with their closeness one bit.
The circumstances around my parent’s divorce were unique. They got along, they built a life, they made children. They had so much fun together. No one laughed like them and even their bickering was like a comedic routine at times. Papi was with my Mom when she took her last breath. He massaged her, stroked her hair and made her absolutely insane until she left us. He sat next to her hospital bed. He cried over her. He promised her he would be there for us, that he would love us through the pain of losing her.
And when the time came for Papi to accept that his time on earth was near end, my Aunt asked him…. “Who do you want to greet you when you arrive to the other side? Papi tearfully answered, “I want it to be Lucy.” (My Mom.) Their love for one another was real, messy, tragic at times. There were years of disconnect in between. Violence and words that could not be taken back. Hurt and anger. Resentment and court. We rode all the waves and I was in therapy at a very young age over the depression and fear this and other traumas had me experiencing. My high school graduation has no photo of us as a family, they could not even stand to sit near one another. Years and years of grudges. Until Mia. During my pregnancy, my mother was going through the second huge heartbreak of her life and she and Papi bonded once again. The first man to hurt her was the one that would support her through her last romantic heartbreak. The excitement to become grandparents, the sharing of her newness united them in a way that could never be broken again.
*Disclaimer: I am not an advocate of divorce. I love to see family’s working it out. I just wanted to share my story and personal experience from the perspective of the child(ren) at the center. My parent’s story is unique and co-parenting did not always come easy for them. Their divorce had very painful and ugly moments, we all bled. My parents were essentially divorced twice each, my grandparents on both sides were divorced as well. Could this generational curse end with me? God knows how desperately I hope so. Marriage isn’t easy, we have to die to ourselves in loving service daily. Forgiveness becomes a daily practice. But the shared moments with one another and our children are where it’s at. If you are considering it, please pray and do the self-work and family effort. Truth is, we never escape that work anyway. Your family (and mine) deserve that fighting chance!
Vida Taina Luz 
Thank you for sharing your personal experience with divorce. It seems like nobody wins in a divorce.
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