Growing Up Between Two Homes: A Story of Love, Distance, and Understanding

As a child, I lived in a world split in two. My parents never divorced—not legally, not at first—but they separated, creating two different lives in two different towns. I spent weekdays with my mother, where I went to school, made most of my friends, and built my sense of normalcy. On weekends, I’d go to my father’s, a place that always felt like a shift in reality.

At first, the distance was stark. My father moved from New Brunswick, where I was being raised amidst urban decay, to Lanoka Harbor, New Jersey. He wanted to escape the environment we were in while still commuting north for work. My mother eventually followed suit, moving to Forked River in the same township to keep visitation simple and, above all, to give me a safer place to grow up.

Despite their separation, my parents got along well—better than when they lived under the same roof. They never fought in front of me. They never spoke ill of each other. Their styles of parenting, however, were vastly different, molding me into someone both selfless and selfish, guarded yet protective. I learned to keep my walls up but also felt a strong responsibility to guard the people around me.

Still, as a kid, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being torn. No matter how amicable their split was, I felt like I was to blame. It didn’t matter that there were no screaming matches or custody battles—I was the common denominator between them, so in my mind, their separation had to be my fault. That misplaced guilt latched onto me, and I directed my anger at my mother.

She took it all—every unfair word, every moment of frustration. My father never blamed her, and she never blamed him, but somehow, I took it upon myself to hold her responsible. Looking back, I see how strong she was, absorbing my pain without ever letting it break her.

It wasn’t until my early twenties that my parents finally made their separation official. Sitting side by side in a courtroom, ready to sign the paperwork, they were informed they had to sit apart—plaintiff and defendant. They both found it absurd. After years of living separate lives, they weren’t bitter, they weren’t angry. They were just two people signing off on what had already been true for most of my life.

Their divorce wasn’t an ending—it was just a formality. And in that moment, I realized something important: not every separation is about conflict. Sometimes, love just changes form. Sometimes, the best way to care for someone is to let them go.