Life Between Weekends
I was eight or nine when my parents separated, and at the time, I didn’t really feel like anything was wrong. My younger sister was about four or five. I didn’t have a strong grasp on what was happening, and I didn’t feel like I was being affected in a major way. Back then, it just felt like life was happening around me and I was moving through it.
My parents sat my sister and me down one day and explained that they would be living in separate houses. Before that, I hadn’t seen dramatic fighting or obvious signs that something was changing. My dad used an analogy about love being like a flower that wilts if it isn’t cared for, and that stuck with me. Because of how they explained it, I didn’t feel like I had to choose sides or take on their problems. It made the idea of separation easier to accept as a child.
They agreed that my mom would have primary custody and that my dad would have us every second weekend. At that age, I wasn’t part of those decisions. My sister and I would follow the schedule, and for a long time, that was just how it was. But as we got older, that strict schedule started to interfere with our lives — friendships, birthdays, sleepovers, school, and eventually work. We began to feel guilty if we wanted flexibility, as though wanting a normal social life meant we were doing something wrong. When the parenting schedule started affecting real moments in our lives, it created tension, and my sister and I were the ones who had to initiate the difficult conversations.
For most of our childhood, my parents shielded us from the details of their disagreements, and I didn’t realize until later how unusual that was. I became aware of conflict only in my teens and into adulthood. At first, it was mostly about scheduling — a vacation that disrupted a weekend, or logistical disagreements. But as time went on, the conflict became more about control, often disguised as conversations about money, and it reached a point where the truth became hard to find. Each parent would share a version of a story that didn’t match the other. There was no straightforward narrative, and my sister and I were left to navigate the gap in between.
Now, at 23, the conflict is the most visible it has ever been. It has become exhausting to be in the middle of miscommunication that has never fully resolved. My parents mostly communicate through emails, which only adds more distance. I often feel that the decisions that impact us would be better handled through open dialogue — all of us sitting together at one table — but that isn’t something my parents believe would work.
When the separation first happened, I didn’t feel devastated. In fact, I remember a school counselor pulling me in weekly to talk about how I felt, and I would give the answers she seemed to expect — that I was sad or confused — even though I didn’t really feel that way. I think part of that came from how I saw divorce portrayed on TV and in movies. I thought I was supposed to feel broken, but I didn’t.
Looking back now, I can see the impact more clearly. Not in the moment of separation, but in the years that followed. Divorce didn’t hit me all at once — it revealed itself slowly, as the complications and consequences unfolded over time.