Private Lives: Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.
BOLINAS, CALIF. — Two years ago, my mother called.
"Let me talk to my granddaughter," she said. I handed the baby the phone, and they gurgled at each other. When I picked up again she told me that, after 45 years of marriage to my father, she had hired a divorce lawyer.
This wasn't so much a shock as a deep, glacial shift. My father, a doctor, has long battled addiction. He is a loving man, hilarious on some days, but frightening on others. And my mother loved him, too much to walk away. We all did. So we lived with the storms and waited them out. This resulted less in visible scarring than in a sort of wry emotional stoicism that has become our family stamp.
But during my mid-20s, my daughterly role morphed from protected vessel of innocence to sought-after confidante from whom nothing — nothing! — was withheld. I listened as my mother divulged increasingly alarming stories. Still, it was obvious to me the split would never really happen. Come on, I thought. Let's stop kidding ourselves. We're all old now.
Then, at the age of 72, Mom reached a threshold. As much as she hated to do it, she finally had to free herself.
There is something decidedly disorienting about becoming a child of divorce at 40. For one thing, my brother and I are extravagantly late to the party. During the first wave of divorces among my parents' group when I was 8 or 9, I pined for the family breakup. It wasn't that I was terribly miserable. (Moderately, maybe.) The real draw was that the attention seemed glamorous. Today, my daughter's father and I totter after her with snacks and books, catering to her every emotional need. This was not the style when I was a kid. Mom and Dad were wonderful parents, yet my brother and I were largely along for the ride on their social train, sometimes getting accidentally mislaid in airports and at house parties. It wasn't negligence; it was just the way it was for their set in the early '80s. To have your mother and father fight for you in court, now that seemed cool.
And the guilt presents! As my girlfriends with divorced parents got older, the spoils became more desirable. Bags of new clothing from Esprit. Tickets to unchaperoned Jefferson Starship concerts. I remember one of my friends receiving a new Honda wrapped in a bow. And certainly there was nowhere sexier to be in eighth grade than at a sleepover in a friend's divorced-dad condo, where the "Porky's" movies looped unchecked, and for breakfast one might be served pizza and warm New Coke.
At 40, for me my parents' separation draws no pity slumber parties, no new cars. Blank stares are usually what I get when I drop the sad news. Though it rarely comes up. Why would it? There are no arrangements to make to pick me up from dance class, no birthday parties to choreograph.
What does it mean, when your parents split apart after you yourself have lived half of your life? For one thing, there isn't a shred of innocence left. I know exactly what my mother and father are losing, because I've known these people for four decades. I've witnessed their stubborn affection for each other; I'm old enough to get their private jokes. If I were younger, perhaps I could trick myself into imagining a cute "Parent Trap" situation, but my middle-aged mind knows reconciliation is not possible, not after almost half a century of two people struggling with a disease no one beats. Certainly, I am less shattered than I would have been as a kid. But I am sadder, too.
And then there is the new chill that has permeated my own household. I'm in a happy relationship that I can't imagine wanting to leave. But will the statistics about children of divorce suddenly apply to me, now that I'm the product of a broken home?
It's important to note that it's been two years, and the papers have not been signed. My mother is a very determined person, and I think she still believes she can, even now, will my father into health and take him along on one of her birding cruises. But the separation has happened, residences have changed. For this reason, I recently poured out large respective glasses of wine and milk, then sat down with my daughter, now 4, to clear it all up.
"Mommy's mommy and Mommy's daddy don't live together anymore, " I told her.
She blinked at me. I took out some crayons and drew her a picture. The yellow house is Grandpa's house. The white house, Grandma's.
"Who gets the toys?" she asked. It was a good question, one my brother and I have been idly wondering ourselves. Where are the toys? Are there even any left?
"Everybody," I lied.
"Who gets me?" she asked.
"Everybody." This is the truth. Since this new family arrangement, she has been in hot demand. Constant phone calls, Skyping sessions twice a week.
She considered this. "That sounds fun," she said.
And then I saw it all happening. She would be the one to get the clothes, the trips to Disney World, the New Coke. I could almost hear the tagline. Grandchildren of divorce: All of the spoils, none of the pain. It's kind of nice to imagine, isn't it? Someone, after all these years, might finally get to win.
Katie Crouch is the author of the forthcoming novel "Abroad."
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