I tell him that it's okay.
We look up an Italian movie on netflix because I want to hear and read and improve Italian. We talk. He asks me, "I just don't get it. I don't get what could have been so bad between you and dad that you would break up the family for it."
I tell him that it is just adult stuff, that it is not about the family, that it wasn't a family problem. It was an adult problem, a relationship problem.
He says, "I mean, I know. But to split up the family? We were fine. I don't want to know what happened."
He has always been curious, always wanting to know details and names and stories. Like most kids, he does not hear when I call him to do a chore, but he hears some story or gossip that I try to share quietly on the phone to my sister. This is the first time I can think of that he has said that he does not want to know the details.
He asks, "So how long do you think this separation will last? When do you think that dad will move back in?"
I tell him, "I don't know. But he might not ever move back in. I just don't know. I don't want to give you false hope."
As we get the movie started, sitting on the floor with the basket of laundry between us, he says, "So do [marriage]vows not matter? Do they not mean anything if people just break them, just don't stay together?
I tell him, "Well, it depends on how you look at it. Which vows were broken first. Was it the one to stay together or the ones to love, honor, cherish? It depends."
We watch our movie.
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I thought that, of our four kids, Sebastian and Mary would be the least surprised, that they would get pretty quickly how our marriage hadn't been working. But they were surprised, shocked just like their younger siblings. They hadn't seen us fight in a long time. They hadn't seen me upset or crying or exchanging tense words with Daniel. We hadn't fought in front of them in years. But still, I thought that Sebastian would get it since he has his own challenges in working through things with his dad.
But no.
He just wanted our family unit back. And he didn't want more information about the why or how. He wanted our family as it was.
How could I tell him that our family as it was was causing me incredible pain, a desperate, raw, vulnerable hurt that I couldn't patch over one more time?
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It's weeks later. Sebastian comes out to the porch to talk. Seven weeks after Daniel moved out. Today, for the first time, Sebastian has told someone outside our house -- other than the doctor who did his physical. Even this was shocking to me: when I walk into Mary's exam room, the doctor/MA says hello, and in her I'm-talking-to-children voice, says, "So, I hear that there is a big change at home, and that there is a separation." I am now the one in shock. I've not heard these words come from someone else's mouth, these words about my own life. I think, How does she know? Which kid actually told her when none of them speaks about it outside the house -- not because we forbid them; in fact, we encourage them, but because they just don't seem to talk about it. She tells the girls about the counselor that they have at the pediatrician's office, tells them that it can be good to have someone to talk to, that he's a nice man, and they can come in any time. I shake my head in agreement, but my eyes have teared up: this is a reality now. We are separated, and this news is no longer in only our own hands and mouths. I follow her out to go to the boys' exam room, but when she points me to their door, I follow her to her office and say, "Michelle, do you have a second?" She says sure, and we head to her office. I ask her which kid told her, not because I'm upset, but because I am surprised. I'm thinking that it must have been Mary.
"Sebastian," she says.
"Good," I tell her. "I'm glad that he actually got the words out. He hasn't told anyone, not even the neighborhood friend that he plays with every day."
She is kind, sharing with me that she got divorced some years ago, that now she is happy, that unexpected love found her again. She hands me tissues that I wipe my eyes with above my mask.
When she tells our ten-year-old about the counselor, a counselor that he has actually seen before, instead of saying, "Okay," like the other kids did, Connor says, "I don't think so," in such a way as to reveal not a debating so much as a certainty, the way an adult would say, "I don't think so," to a child who has requested staying up til 1am or having ice cream for breakfast.
Back in the car, Sebastian tells us (me and his three siblings -- Daniel preferred not to take the kids to physicals; I rather like getting all the news first-hand) that Michelle asked him directly, "Any changes at home?" So he felt like, well, this is a change, and told her. And then, as she spoke, he said that he knew exactly where she was going with this information: we have a counselor here if you want to talk. We laughed in the car at the predictability, at his knowing what was coming next, at Connor's "I don't think so." And then I told them that I actually really like that counselor and I think he'd be great to talk to, and I am so glad that I have a therapy appointment every week with Peggy. Peggy is a household name at this point. I've been seeing her on and off since 2005 when my mom died. Sebastian says, "I think I remember her. I remember that she had a puzzle toy that I liked to play with when you took me there."
So now, outside the medical provider, Sebastian has told his best friend in the neighborhood, Gus. When I walk in the door from blueberry picking with the others, he tells me, "I talked to Gus again. It was good. He asked me why you were separated and whether you were getting divorced. I told him that things weren't going well and I didn't know."
Good answers, I tell him. He also says that Gus is angry because his parents acted like they didn't already know or didn't tell him when they knew. Sebastian tells him, No, don't be mad at them. My parents asked them not to tell you, to let us kids tell you when we were ready.
I go out to the back porch with some iced tea. Sebastian follows with the tea I made him in the morning. He reviews a difficult conversation that he had with Daniel the night before. He sees that Daniel tried to get it, but that he couldn't totally see the situation from Sebastian's point of view, that he didn't totally get the problem and Sebastian's frustration. He just couldn't get it, Sebastian says. I tell Sebastian gently, "Multiply your relationship with your dad by ten, and that's me." Sebastian says, "Yeah, I can see that that would be hard."
Two nights before, as I hung towels on the upstairs banister and Sebastian did dishes in the kitchen, he hollered up, "Do you still miss your mom a lot?"
"Yes," I told him, "not like I did in the beginning when I cried all the time. Mostly I miss her and it's okay, like even happy, because we talk about her a lot. Or because you kids bring things up, like today when Hannah asked me to buy you kids the treats that my mom bought me when we were in Scituate. But sometimes, like on a big occasion for you kids, I feel a bit sad, wishing she could see it, see you. She would have adored you all so much. She would have just gotten so much joy out of you."
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Sebastian is dishes this week (rotating chores among four kids: dishes; trash and recycling; running laundry; folding laundry), so we get some visiting time after dinner each night. Tonight he asks, "So how is it for you with single parenting?"
Daniel moved out about seven weeks ago. He has the kids two days and two evenings a week, though all at our house. I am at home with the kids for the rest of the time. I think about the question, and I think about whether to answer honestly.
"Really, it doesn't feel much different," I tell him.
"Oof," he says. Then, "But dad cooked a lot. But you don't actually mind cooking."
I agree with him. "Yes, your dad is a great cook. And I miss your dad and talking with him and laughing and joking around or reading or watching movies or walking with him. I really do. But in terms of parenting, not much has changed for me."
He asks something else, and I tell him, "Do you know that there was at least one or maybe two weeks in May when your dad and I spoke to each other only to be polite? We exchanged nothing else, just politeness and logistical information. That was it."
"I didn't notice," he says.
It's good he didn't notice: kids are supposed to be kids, paying attention to themselves. But I want him to know that the big happy family that we split up wasn't a big happy family before Daniel moved out. For those six weeks before Daniel moved out, there was extreme turmoil in our house, so much tension and sadness and grief and pain and anger in the air. I don't say all this -- he's fourteen, and he doesn't need to know it. He's already told me that we're doing a good job and that he doesn't feel like there are sides. I want to keep it this way. But I also want him to know that things weren't as good as he thought when we all lived together. Daniel's not living with us is not what is causing the problems: it is a result of the problems.
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There will be more questions, more concerns, and likely more anger, too. Sebastian has made it clear that he does not want to spend half his time at our house and half his time at Daniel's. He doesn't think that it is fair if our problems affect his personal life. I can see what he's saying. I haven't figured out what to do about it, but I get it.
I don't have more answers for Sebastian.
Mostly I hope that he keeps talking.
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