As I sit on my bed, hands tucked under my thighs, I hear the harsh exchanges between my parents—words that can never be taken back. In these moments, I often find myself screaming, crying, or doing both. When they aren’t fighting, they avoid each other entirely, and that’s the only time there’s peace.
I prefer it this way, when they’re apart, free from the tension of tiptoeing around their volatile exchanges. I promised myself that when I grew up, I wouldn’t remain in a relationship out of obligation to my children. I frequently ask my mother why she stayed in her unhappy marriage for so long, and she always tells me I wouldn’t understand until I had kids of my own. She was right.
My own relationship began with turbulence—an unplanned pregnancy at 20, with one partner possessing a fiery temper and the other struggling with unpredictable mood swings. Both of us were stubborn, unwilling to heed reason.
While our situation may sound stereotypical, it was far from ordinary. The temper was explosive, often resulting in harsh words said without any recollection of them after the fact. The mood swings left me on edge, never quite sure which version of my partner I would encounter each day. The good moments were tolerable, but when things went south, they were chilling.
Many at our age wouldn’t have made it through this stage—navigating the newfound identities of parents while trying to maintain the semblance of a couple. Most people wouldn’t endure the treatment we inflicted on each other, but we believed we had no choice but to stay together for our child. During our fights, I would be cold, and he would be cruel. But we told ourselves it was for the sake of the child.
Unlike most couples, we managed to suppress our conflicts while our son was around. I thought this restraint was out of love, which it was, but it was also a desperate attempt to uphold the image of a perfect family. My partner’s upbringing was filled with romance, while my own parents had separated when I was just six years old. We were both determined to avoid what we perceived as failure—an illusion we didn’t recognize for a long time.
We convinced ourselves we needed to make it work, and as the outbursts lessened and the emotional turmoil became more manageable, we decided to have another child. The intention was to provide our son with a sibling, to shift our focus away from each other, or maybe we thought it would solve our problems. I’m not quite sure, but I can say I don’t regret it—not only because I love my children but also because having a second child gave us the courage to confront the truth: our relationship was not sustainable.
Having a second child placed additional strain on our already fragile bond. We waited for the tension to ease, but it never did. Our conversations dwindled to silence; we rarely touched or shared any intimacy. “I love you” became an unspoken phrase, and the warmth we once shared was replaced by a cold indifference.
Yet there was still friendship, a shared understanding that we were both willing to endure this for our children. Our shared humor occasionally broke through the sadness, especially after a few drinks. We had similar beliefs and aspirations, but it wasn’t enough to bridge the growing divide between us.
I recall the moment I knew I had to make a choice. If I stayed any longer, I’d lose myself entirely, morphing into an unhappy mother while my partner would be an unhappy father. That summer, just before my eldest was set to start kindergarten, I felt the weight of my childhood memories—the impending decision loomed large. I had to choose: Continue this unsustainable cycle, or break free.
We read relationship books and tried counseling. After several sessions, our counselor told us that we were one of the most mature couples she had encountered and that separating was the right choice. I felt a mix of relief and fear—this was real.
After seven years of pretending, we finally decided to prioritize our happiness for the sake of our children. We recognized that we could love them better apart, fostering healthier, more positive relationships. Our goal was for them to witness love rather than tension.
We agreed to live close to each other, minimizing disruption to our son’s life, and we practiced how to break the news to him. We went through our home, deciding who would keep what, all while maintaining the same emotionless facade we had upheld throughout our relationship. But behind closed doors, I cried—grieving what we had tried to build but couldn’t.
The day I signed the lease for my new apartment, my hand shook as I reached for the pen. But once I wrote my name, I felt a surge of determination.
The first day I entered my empty apartment, I sat on the floor. Instead of tears, I smiled, inhaling deeply, taking a picture of my new key—a moment I chose not to share on social media for fear of his feelings. Though I knew we had made the right decision, I was unsure if he felt the same way.
In our case, it became clear that staying together for the kids was not the best path. We were mature enough to handle our separation, addressing the curious questions from our son’s innocent eyes, and managing the delicate balance of co-parenting.
When conflicts arose, we sometimes lost our cool, but never in front of our children. We maintained civility, even greeting each other during drop-offs. There are days when I feel fortunate to have him as the father of my children, and moments when I wonder why I stayed so long. Yet those feelings no longer matter. Our relationship has transformed—now it exists for the benefit of our kids.
When disagreements occur now, we pause to ask ourselves if it truly matters, realizing that most issues are unrelated to parenting. Sometimes, the closeness of our co-parenting relationship leads to blurred lines and fleeting thoughts of reconciliation. We remind ourselves why we chose this path.
I still experience anger, and he still has his irrational moments, but we’ve achieved what many separated parents struggle to attain—an alliance. We’ve formed a partnership that proves that not staying together for the kids was the best decision for us, resulting in happier children.
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Summary
The author reflects on the journey of navigating an unhappy marriage, choosing not to “stay together for the kids.” Through honest introspection and the realization that their relationship was detrimental to their children’s happiness, the couple ultimately decides to separate. They focus on fostering a positive co-parenting relationship, prioritizing their children’s well-being over their own unresolved issues.