When Our Kids Bring Up The Divorce Years Later

My son was seven when I separated from his dad. He’s eighteen now.

Yesterday, we met for coffee and a catch-up. We haven’t caught up for a few weeks — he’s busy studying engineering at uni, working with kids in an after-school programme, and staying committed to his gym routine.

It breaks my heart a little, but this is what happens as our kids grow up. They start building lives of their own, as they should.

We get on really well. We laugh a lot. I’ve noticed he’s opening up more these days, especially about what his friends are going through as they start to face the reality of becoming young men.

I like this glimpse into his world. It gives me a chance to listen, and sometimes offer a little wisdom if it feels right.

Somehow, we ended up talking about the divorce. We don’t usually, but recently he’s brought it up a few times.

We were sitting on the beach, not far from the little house I rented just after the split. He was seven. His sister was four.

We started remembering that house together. How small it was, but how cosy it felt. It had ocean views and sunlight pouring through the windows. It felt safe.

He said that when he thinks back to our divorce, he always thinks of that house. He remembered feeling sad, but not really knowing why. I told him I felt really sad too. It was a hard time for all of us.

Hearing him talk about it now, from his young adult self looking back, stirred something in me. It wasn’t the same sharp guilt I used to feel. That knife has dulled a bit. But there’s still something there that sits uncomfortably in my body.

He remembered seeing a child psychologist back then. He’d developed sleep anxiety after the separation, and my ex and I organised support for him. Six sessions helped. After that, he was able to stay in bed and settle more easily.

He couldn’t remember everything they talked about, but he said he just felt better after each session. One moment stood out. The psychologist had asked him, “What will happen if you don’t get to sleep?” And he’d answered, “I’ll be tired at school, and I won’t learn anything.”

Sitting there on the beach, he reflected, “I guess my brain just needed something to hook into. I didn’t realise it was actually worry about you guys splitting up.”

As he said it, I felt that familiar ache rising. But I stayed with him. I shared my memories too. I didn’t brush it away. It still hurts to look back sometimes. That’s the reality of divorce when you have children. The grief doesn’t vanish. It gets quieter, but it lives inside you.

He told me he thought we’d had the best possible divorce. That he always felt loved and supported by both of us. That we did everything we could to stay connected as a family, even while things were changing.

I reminded him that back then, when he overcame his sleep struggles, I’d told him: You’re the one who got yourself through this. Not me. Not the psychologist. You did that. And now, that same strength can help carry you through other tough times you’ll face.

Divorce is sad. It affects everyone in the family. I’ve never pretended otherwise.

But the truth is, none of us can avoid sadness and grief in life. We all face loss at some point.

And while none of us would choose divorce, sometimes it chooses us.

It’s only when we come out the other side that we start to see the bigger picture. And even then, we still have moments of doubt. We wonder what if we’d tried harder. What if we’d done it differently?

But eventually, we come to trust that there was no other path. Even when it’s still murky.

That conversation with my son reminded me of this graphic I’ve shared on Instagram. It highlights beautifully to me how we don’t ‘get over’ our divorces and leave it all behind. We integrate the experience so that we can still experience love and happiness as we begin to heal.

That’s what this is. You don’t erase divorce grief. Especially when you share children and you keep parenting through all the stages that follow. There are always new milestones, new reflections, new chances to wonder what might’ve been.

As I dropped him back at his dad’s house, where he lives now that he’s in college, I felt that ache again. Not because anything was wrong. Just the quiet recognition that this grief wants to be felt sometimes.

It’s part of my story.

And knowing that, accepting that, is what helps me stay present when these moments come. It’s what allows me to sit with my kids when they need to revisit it, like my son did yesterday.

Not to fix.
Not to defend.
Just to sit beside him.

Even when it hurts

Until next time,

Carol

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