Living in the Middle: A Child’s Perspective on Divorce

I was twelve when my father moved to a different country for work, and that’s when the slow unraveling of my family began. At first, it was subtle—his visits home became less frequent, almost imperceptibly at first, until by the time I turned sixteen, my parents were officially divorced. Looking back, it all felt gradual, hazy, and somehow inevitable.

I often wonder if there was anything I could have said to my parents during that time. Truthfully, I don’t think there was. The process of losing my family was unexpected, and I wasn’t fully aware of it as it was happening. As it slowly sank in, I tucked away a lot of my emotions, learning early on to navigate the grief quietly.

If I could speak to them now, I would tell them to consider a counsellor for me. Back then, it wasn’t financially feasible, but having that support would have made unpacking the experience as an adult a little easier. More than that, it could have been a light in all the years I spent living through the aftermath of this loss. Divorce is a loss for everyone involved—the spouses, the children, the grandparents, the extended family. Children are at the epicenter of that quake, and that’s something parents often forget.

My parents seemed to experience the divorce as their own journey, not ours. While I know they made financial compromises for my sake, they didn’t fully recognize what it was like to be a child caught in the middle. I wish I had more support through the process and more protection from the aftermath.

To me, we were a family—sort of a family—and then suddenly, we weren’t. My father struggled to figure out how to be a parent in this new context, and in losing my family, I also experienced a gradual loss of him. The first blow came from judgment. Being Canadian with Chinese roots, I lived in two cultures. In my Chinese community, divorce was seen as a failure, and the assumptions were harsh. People expected my mother to die miserable and alone, and assumed I would grow up delinquent and broken, regardless of my straight-A grades or Honour Roll achievements. I felt those assumptions everywhere—in conversations I overheard, in the sideways glances, in the whispered warnings adults gave me.

Despite everything, I think my parents did one thing right: they divorced. Their marriage had been unhappy, full of cold wars and fights that could have dragged me into darkness had it continued. Ending it spared me from more direct trauma.

The way they told me about the divorce—or rather didn’t tell me—was another challenge. There wasn’t a real conversation; maybe a casual announcement, or maybe it was just assumed I understood. My father was overseas, so there was no formal parenting schedule; I saw him when he could manage it, and as time went on, those visits became rare.

It wasn’t often that my parents spoke negatively about each other in front of me. What hurt the most was witnessing their pain: holding my father’s hand as if it were the last time we’d see each other, catching each of them crying in secret. They never learned healthy communication and were flawed in many ways, but in those moments of loss and grief, it was the warm memories of our time as a family that cut the deepest.

I was fortunate to remain unaware of any court proceedings. Even now, my mother only makes vague references. If I had been more aware of the legal battles, the stress would have been overwhelming.

I didn’t receive formal guidance or emotional support from my parents. There were no counsellors, no structured help—just navigating the two worlds that divorce created: two homes, two realities, and the challenge of figuring out what it meant to be a child of divorced parents.

Even without perfect support or clarity, I’ve learned that the pain, the quiet grief, and the memories of warmth can coexist. They shape us, teach us resilience, and remind us of what it means to hold love and loss side by side.