When I married my ex-husband, I married into an incredible extended family.
When we split up, I handed over the bed we’d bought when we first married. He also got the second television, all of his books and music, and a pile of assorted household ephemera - including the enameled cast iron pan he’d been handed down from his aunt (years later, I still covet that pan…) We never argued about ’stuff’ - who got what, who wanted what. And we didn’t pull people into our disputes, either - but the friends who started out as my friends have stayed that way; his friends naturally aligned themselves with him.
It got sticky when it came to figuring out how to deal with family - his family, mostly. His relatives liked me and wanted to be supportive. I didn’t want to air dirty laundry, so kept our ongoing tussles the first year after we separated fairly private - they were his family first and foremost; I didn’t want to create any wedges or force people into taking sides.
And that’s how we ended up driving down to California that first December ‘as a family’ - months after he’d moved out. Even though we’d already decided there was no chance of reconciliation.
Why did we do it? Part logistics, part emotion, mostly. He didn’t want to travel down to a huge family reunion by himself, with both kids. I didn’t want to be away from the kids for more than a week just yet - plus I was the one with the minivan. And we figured that dangling the ‘family’ carrot - not to mention a planned excursion to Disneyland & California Adventure on Christmas Eve/Christmas Day - would help ease the kids through that first holiday season.
Finally, I loved these people and wanted to be with them one last time.
How’d it go? Let’s just say that if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t have gone. Well-meaning relatives buttonholed me, offering to help facilitate a reconciliation. Others just wanted to know what had gone wrong, or wanted to go shake some sense into him. Others - a distinct minority, thankfully - wondered why I was there in the first place, feeling that my presence made things awkward. And although I was surrounded by loving, supportive people (for the most part), it hurt beyond belief to realize that when push came to shove, they were his people. Not mine.
It all came to a head on New Year’s Eve, where after a bit too much champagne, I turned into a blubbery mess. And the tears continued to leak out sporadically the next day - all the way north as we headed back to Oregon, turning my head to the car window so that the kids wouldn’t see.
At the time, I thought that I was mourning the end of our relationship - and I’m quite sure my ex was less than thrilled that I couldn’t manage to keep it together until he got out of sight.
But looking back, I wasn’t mourning our end - I’d been doing that for months, and I knew that we were done. Instead, I was mourning the loss of his family.
Years later, I still love and respect his family. Thankfully, I know that they love and respect me as well - and most journeyed up to Oregon last December to help celebrate my son’s Bar Mitzvah. And while I keep up on family news, get email from assorted family members, and we stay in touch - well, it’s not the same. For starters, my ex has a new partner now - and they adore her (as well they should.)
But even though I know it’s wiser, smarter, healthier this way - it still twinges, even now, when I think of what used to be.