By Tricia Patras
My parents got divorced when I was seventeen. Their divorce hit me hard. Not in the sense that I was losing both my parents–but that it was unbearable to see two people who I loved dearly growing such hatred for one another.
The only thing that gave me solace was the idea that they would now be separated from one another. Their arguments would no longer ring through my sister and my adolescent ears, and we could try to have a relationship with both of them–separately, and without any bias.
Today, my divorced parents live together as companions.
This took a while to achieve. We hated being put in the middle–but for the first few years of their divorce, my sister and I were in a constant battle of taking “sides.” Our lives were spent balancing our time between our mom and dad, and making sure that they kept their distance. Five minutes together in the same room would always end up in a fighting rage. At one point, it felt like a competition of who could survive divorce better. The financial struggle was apparent on both sides, and resentment overpowered any remnants of the happy life together that they once knew.
I would frequently ask myself, “where does the love go?” And there were glimmers of love between my parents: for example, when my mom shared information about a new diabetes development to help out my Stage 1 Diabetic dad. And then there were the times when my dad would ask whether we should bring our mom dinner during our nights with him. These small acts of kindness assured me that no matter the circumstance or relationship, there always remains some love and care.
A few years into their new divorce arrangements, the pandemic hit. My mom, a front-line nurse, ended up in the hospital with Covid, and ultimately lost her income because she was too sick to do her job. Although this was a difficult time for my mom, it had the opposite effect on my dad. As a financial advisor and a health insurance broker, his job was needed more than ever. He was able to save enough money to buy his own home.
When my mom got sick, it was my dad’s idea to let her move into his new home temporarily. At first, my sister and I were beside ourselves. How could two people who claim they hate each other so much share the same space?
And initially things were very rocky. My mom had to avoid my dad at all costs. They couldn't be in the kitchen at the same time. My younger sister was living with them and acting as the referee for the household. Their fights were reminiscent of what we would hear during their marriage–familiar arguments over money, and the choices that led them to this situation. It felt like we were going through a second divorce.
My sister and I began having interventions with them separately and together about their arguments. We demanded a change in order to make our living situation more pleasant. With some coaching from us, my parents agreed to become a bit more self-aware.
By the second year, things started to get better. My parents were used to seeing each other every day, and they learned how to respect one another’s space. That year, we even had Christmas dinner as a family for the first time in ten years. My mom made her famous lasagna, and we watched White Christmas all together in the family room. Our dysfunctional family was somehow starting to function in a way that didn’t hurt each other.
My parents still have completely separate lives: their own social circles that don’t intertwine, and they don’t necessarily hang out with each other unless my sister and I are present. The divide is there, but that line seems to fade more and more each day.
It started with little things: my mom would no longer think twice before switching over my dad’s laundry–and my dad made sure to always bring home an extra slab of ribs from Portillos. They were also co-parenting in a way that felt less toxic, which made the choosing of “sides” for my sister and I less prominent. Gradually, this highly unconventional situation of living with your ex-spouse started to feel normal for all involved.
Our shared home is bringing new experiences that I thought were long gone for my family. When I come home from work, I tell both my mom and dad about the hilarious thing that happened that day. Over time, the banter between them even started becoming more loving and less rooted in anger, bitterness, or condescension. I never thought I would experience the day where I looked at this situation as convenient. But today, I feel lucky to have both of my parents under one roof.
When I tell my friends and acquaintances about our blended family situation, I usually get instant pity. I can understand that to an outsider, it is a bizarre arrangement. In the beginning, I used to lie whenever people asked about my parents. I was embarrassed by my mom’s financial struggle, and felt guilt that I could have played even a tiny role in contributing to this toxic environment.
But now, it’s not something I am ashamed of anymore. This is my life. When I peel back the layers of who our family is, we never really have been conventional. This situation actually feels “on brand” for our evolving family dynamics.
Although sometimes dysfunctional, my parents’ care for one another has now overpowered hatred. I now come home for the holidays to one family in one house. Their companionship is a reminder that love has the power to change form, and evolve into something that may even surprise you.
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