Okay… real moment.
Frankie and I didn’t have a perfect marriage. Far from it. There was deceit, lies, heartbreak, and trauma that felt impossible to repair.
But he showed up where it truly mattered — in our children’s lives. And that truth doesn’t take away from my own happiness or the reasons our marriage ended. We both knew our time together was over, and the most important thing became learning how to show up for our kids, together.
He never missed a birthday, holiday, or special occasion. He stood there proudly every time, never holding back tears.
One Christmas, he was so excited to finally fill a room in our house with brand-new toys for the kids. He said wrapping the presents would take too long — he couldn’t wait to see their faces — so instead, he wrapped the door to the room.
Then he stood there, teary-eyed, watching as the kids opened the door and screamed with pure joy.
He was selfless. Loving. A devoted father.
So because of the bad in our marriage, does that discredit who he was as a father? As a friend?
I don’t think so.
But I’ve spent the last two years afraid to grieve — my loss, and my children’s loss — because of the mistakes that were made.
And maybe healing, while parenting full-time, looks like finally allowing myself to hold both truths at once.
That he hurt me.
And that he loved our children deeply.
That our marriage ended for a reason.
And that there was still good worth remembering.
Maybe healing is letting grief exist without guilt. Letting love exist without rewriting history. Letting my children remember their father in light, while I continue doing the hard, daily work of carrying us forward.
Maybe healing… is making space for all of it.
But how do I do that? How do I mourn the loss of my friend in a healthy way?
By remembering both the good and the bad. That’s how.
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Grief Is Layered, Not Logical
Is he the man who hurt my heart? Yes.
But he is also the man who loved my kids so much he wrapped a door just to see their joy.
He was the person I called multiple times a day to share stories with, and he’s also a partner I outgrew. Positive and negative can exist in the same space.
Grief isn’t a courtroom where you present evidence and reach a verdict about how you’re allowed to feel. It’s a room big enough to hold contradictions.
Sometimes it’s simply:
“That was beautiful.”
Other times:
“That still hurts.”
Both are true.
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Giving Your Brain a Safe Place to Process
When you’re parenting nonstop, emotions get pushed to the side. Who has time to deal with them when survival comes first?
But when grief is ignored, it doesn’t disappear. It leaks out sideways — like a wild garden hose spraying everywhere. Guilt, irritability, and numbness end up spilling into our kids and our daily lives.
Grief needs a container.
That might look like:
• Sitting in the car for five extra minutes for a private cry
• Keeping a note in your phone called “Memories of Dad” for the good stories
• Keeping another called “What I Went Through” to validate your own experience
• Therapy, if it’s available — a place where you get to exist, not just “Mom”
This isn’t wallowing. It’s processing.
Letting Kids Love Him Without Feeling Disloyal
I’m allowed to say:
“Your dad loved you so much.”
Without having to say:
“He was a perfect husband.”
I refuse to rewrite their history or their good memories because of what I went through. My boundaries and my truth are separate from their experience of him.
That’s not denial. That’s healthy emotional separation.
Grieving the Friend, Not the Marriage
Sometimes what we mourn isn’t the relationship — it’s the moments of connection that existed inside it.
The inside jokes. The shared looks. The way he cried watching the kids. The version of him that showed up in those spaces.
I’m finally allowing myself to miss that person. Missing him doesn’t mean I want the marriage back. It just means it mattered.
What Healing Might Quietly Look Like Over Time
Not dramatic. Not linear. More like:
Telling a story about him and smiling before the ache hits.
Crying less about what happened, and more about what was.
Feeling less responsible for carrying everyone’s emotions alone.
Letting joy back in without feeling disloyal to the past.
Realizing one day that I can think of him with warmth and clarity.
Healing doesn’t mean the grief disappears. It means it stops running the house.
I loved an imperfect person. He loved our children deeply.
And maybe healing isn’t about choosing which truth survives.
Maybe it’s learning how to carry them both — gently.
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