'If you want more love, why don't you say so?'

The seventeenth one

It was a rainy night, or at least I think it was. Maybe my memory's playing tricks on me, but the road was slick, and the sky felt low. We were driving home like any other night when the car slowed to a stop at a red light. Nothing out of the ordinary—until my mom opened the door and got out to walk the rest of the way home. 

My dad, stammered, "She—uh—she just needs some air."

We all waited for him to explain more, to make sense of what we’d just seen. The more he tried to explain what was happening, the more confused we became. Maybe it was the rain, or maybe it wasn’t. All I remember is the feeling of being utterly lost and scared in that moment.

“We’re getting a divorce.”

I remember my mom sitting us down and saying those words. 

I remember my older sister crying.

I don’t remember how I felt or if I really knew what divorce meant.

I don’t remember how my mom said it, whether her voice was steady or trembling.

They say divorce is harder on the kids, and maybe that’s true. But if I’m being honest—or maybe I need a therapist to help me unearth my real feelings—I don’t think it was as hard on me as it was on my mom.

💔💔💔

My mom has always been incredible, the kind of mom who showed up for everything—big or small—and still does. I've shared before how blessed I am to still be able to pick up the phone and call my mom—whether it's to share a funny story or, more often, to cry about something and get the perfect advice and encouragement. What is it about moms that makes them always know exactly what to say? It feels like a superpower, and I can only hope to have that with my daughter one day.

At 28, my mom was a stay-at-home mom with four kids, living in a small white house in Watts, CA. To me, life was great. We had a huge backyard (or at least it felt huge to me) where we played all day with each other and the neighborhood kids. Our house felt like the heart of the block, constantly filled with laughter and energy.

Then suddenly, the lights dimmed and the music stopped. My world was interrupted—my parents were getting a divorce.

What did that mean for my family? For me? Would we have to move? Would I have to make new friends? Why was my sister crying? Before I could even process those questions, we were already living somewhere new. I don’t remember packing up or even the drive. One day, I woke up in our little white house, and by that night, I was falling asleep in an unfamiliar apartment complex.

My dad disappeared from my life just as quickly. There was no goodbye, no final moment. He was simply gone and my mom was ¹left to raise all four of us on her own.

And then the reality of it all began to unravel. Just as we were settling into a rhythm—building our new home, finding our community, and with my mom working and even buying herself a new car—another change came. My mom met a man who stepped in and tried to play the role of 'dad,' as if he were taking on a part that didn’t quite suit him.

we knew our roles and we played them well.

This new guy, let’s call him Francis, came into our lives when I was about 8 years old. I remember one night when Francis was coming over for dinner, and for some reason, it felt different—it was a big deal. We’d met him a few times before, but this particular night was special. I remember rearranging the letter magnets on the fridge to spell his name, with my mom helping me with the letters. I’m not sure how long they had been dating by then, but that was the night he came over and never left (until he did).

I'm still piecing the memories together, but it always felt like we were all just pretending. He was our pretend dad, and we were his pretend kids. When we went out in public, we’d pretend to be the perfect happy family. At dinner, we’d pretend everything was normal. But when I was alone with my thoughts, I hoped the pretending would stop. I wished he’d disappear just as quickly as he had come, and we’d be back in our little white house. I wanted my dad back, blasting his Prince albums, and my mom to be herself again—not this person pretending to play family with a stranger.

I don't have many clear memories of Francis— just bits and pieces that I’m still trying to put together. However, I do remember this:

Francis had a short temper. I clearly remember an incident from when I was in grade school. I was doing homework at the table when, for reasons I don’t quite recall, he suddenly swept everything off the table with his arm, sending my papers and books crashing to the floor, while he yelled and stormed out of the room. I was left feeling confused and unsure of what had triggered his outburst. I sat there trying to figure out what I might have done or said that set him off, replaying the moment in my head. He came back shortly afterward to apologize, with my mom by his side. And I was left to pick up everything from the floor, put it back on the table, and continue my homework as if nothing had happened.

It’s fascinating how vividly I remember this moment. I can still picture the color of my notebook that suddenly ended up on the floor, the way I bent down to pick everything up, and the knot in my stomach as I feared I had done something wrong. This memory has stayed with me for nearly 25 years!

Other memories are more like fleeting glimpses into my childhood, like him driving me to a school party or how strange it felt to see him kiss my mom. I remember he had a daughter he never saw, which for some reason made me angry.

And then he was gone, and once again it was just four kids and a mom. But life as I knew it was never the same.

I grew up pretty quickly after that. It was the first time I realized, or maybe finally admitted to myself, that my dad wasn’t coming back and that our family had changed forever. I don’t know if it was this shift in our family dynamics, the realization of our broken family, or just the challenges of life that shaped the preteen I became, but something shifted in me, and ²I was difficult to be around for years until I finally moved out of my mom’s house.

Eventually my dad did come back, and although my parents didn’t get back together, he was somehow back in our lives. But by then it was a little too late. By then I had already missed out on things like daddy-daughter dances, advice about boys, and the chance to build that father-daughter relationship that all my friends had. I missed out on dad jokes and all that. I had some of those experiences with Francis, but I was so closed off to him trying to play dad that it didn’t even matter.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m still working through how this loss has shaped who I am today. Maybe I won’t fully uncover that—perhaps writing this column is part of that journey. But one thing I do know for certain is that when I was looking for a spouse, before considering his looks or what he did for work, I had a clear vision of the kind of father I wanted him to be to my future children. When I thought about having a daughter, I made a list of everything I wanted her to have in a father.

I wanted her to have a dad she could lean on when she was upset or sad, someone who would stand up for her when she needed it. A dad who’d help her study for tests, train for the big game, give awkward advice about boys, and show up to embarrass her at school dances. I wanted her to have a dad she could rely on, someone she’d hold as the benchmark for the men she’d date as she grew older. I wanted her to feel confident saying, “I’m telling my dad,” knowing he’d always have her back. A dad who’d protect her and make her boyfriends just a little nervous.

I’m so grateful to have found someone who can be the father I never had. Watching my husband with our daughter is truly beautiful. I think she’s the luckiest girl to have such a dad, and I pray it stays that way. I always tease my husband about this, but on our very first date (which wasn’t really a date, just a dinner with friends where he happened to be at and was trying to shoot his shot), he ended up driving me home and started talking about how he wanted kids and a family and how excited he was about being a dad someday. It felt so random at the time, and I thought, “bro we just met!” But looking back, I realize how special that was to hear. Thank God it all worked out and that my husband was patient with me as I came around to admitting that I liked him (lol).

I’d like to say it all worked out in the end—and in some ways, it did. My mom is happily remarried to a man she met later in life and together they’ve started a new chapter. My siblings and I are well-adjusted adults, living our own lives, raising families, and achieving our goals. But there’s still a lot of healing left for all of us. The kind of healing that takes time, effort, and energy—and honestly, I’m not sure I have it in me just yet.

the kids are alright.

I know there are divorced parents who manage to stay actively involved in their kids' lives no matter what, and I really admire that. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case for me. 

Thank God for my mom.

1. I still don’t know how she did it. Especially now that I’m a mom myself, I find myself asking her the same question. I always joke that I’m a "single mom on Saturdays" since my husband works, and I'm on solo duty with our daughter. It's tough with just one, so I truly can't fathom how my mom managed four all those years!

2. I think I'll spend much of my life trying to understand what triggered this change in behavior. I’ve already explored it through humor and wrote about it a few weeks ago, which you can find here.