ish advice was, “ Separate if you can’t get along; it will be better for the children.” (Better to crush six young hearts than for one or two to bear small hurts? Better the blow should fall on six lives, young and tender, not old enough to know why they must be separated from one another?) Bitter protests and tears were vain, for divorce courts do not consider human hearts when they collect their dues. Mother and Daddy were to be “ free,” but we children were not. I became a slave to despair. The quarrels? They ceased, to be sure, but cries of heartbroken children took their place, and I, for one, longed to hear those quarrels if only it meant I could have my mother and daddy back! This story is my own. The plea I make is that of my own heart, though my brothers, too, could write their stories, and neighbors in our small town could add to it. Perhaps it is just a familiar story —Daddy, too busy to do the little things that count so much, and having to neglect his six- and eight - year - old boys. My little brother longed for his mother, but his loss and grief gave expression to meanness; so he became a prob lem child in school. My teen-age brothers became involved with the law to the extent that they spent a night in jail. I realized even then that this, too, was part o f the price of divorce—that the children pay. Perhaps a girl needs her moth er even more than do the boys. I seemed to be cut the deepest and to suffer the most. The shock of that day in court was indelibly printed on my memory, but I had only begun to taste the bitter por tion dealt to a child o f divorced parents. With Daddy thrust out of my life, my brothers gone, my heart fastened more tenaciously than ever on Mother, and words can not express the shock that was mine when I found her in the arms o f another man. In that in stant I knew utter desolation. I
tended to my needs. Surely she loved me! When things troubled me, I had always gone to her, and her explanations had banished childish fears. I had great faith in my mother. Nor could I doubt my father’s love or the close place I had in his heart. Often my brothers had sent me to Dad when they wanted some favor, knowing he seldom refused me. This special place I had with Daddy was perhaps be cause I was so like him and we understood each other so well. I had deep respect for my father— but how could I compare it with what I felt for Mother? And how could I make a decision that would separate me from either? This was the down payment in the price o f divorce — and the children had to pay. To parents who. still count the cost, I plead the cause of your children! If you subject them to the agony of choosing between the parents he loves, something wonderful has to to die in his heart during the un natural struggle that choice en tails. Years have passed, but I still shudder at the memory o f the day I left our home—with my mother. Daddy cried like a child, and then just stood and stared into space. I have wondered what went through his mind then. He had worked so hard to do right by his family, and now all he had built was gone. Was part of his grief due to the fact that missing from the circle of his motherless chil dren was his only daughter? Was he thinking o f what might have been? In my mind there is no doubt of what might have been: theirs could have been a successful mar riage had they determined to keep the home intact—had both, or even one, been willing to sac rifice personal feelings. As far back as my memory goes, I remember my parents quarreling. L ike all quarrels, these were bom o f selfishness and stubbornness, with neither will ing to give in to the other. Fool
had lost my father. Now my mother no longer belonged to me! Another man — a stranger to me —had taken her and this discov ery completely changed and em bittered my life. Emotions that had been sealed within me now broke forth in end less weeping. Bitterness envel oped me like a cloud and resent ment made it impossible for me to speak peaceably to Mother.. Back of confused emotions came the resolve that no one else should have her. She belonged to me and to Daddy! I became crazed with the idea that I must win her from the one who I felt now was the cause of my sorrow. A showdown had to come. One day I found Mother and her boy friend with other friends in the front yard. Blind despair and a lingering hope gripped me, and for me that gathering became a court session, with a child as prosecuting attorney and the neighbors as jurors. The despera tion that filled my heart poured out: our need o f Daddy, our need of the home we had left — “Oh, please, Mommy, let us go back and be happy!” Artists may paint human suf fering but neither artist’s brush nor writer’s pen can recapture the horror o f the moment when a child realizes it has lost the battle for its mother’s love. One day she had been my mother; the next, she was a stranger whose only feeling seemed to be displeasure at the scene her unreasonable child was caus ing . Neighbors pitied and tried to comfort, but their words did not reach me. I knew only departed hope. I had failed, and no failure had ever in volved so much. I may have been in a state of shock as I found my way back to the old home. A few weeks be fore I had been in this home, a happy, confident child. As I en tered the familiar yard there was no joy in my heart, no anticipa tion or eagerness. Daddy met me at the door and seemed thankful (Continued on next page)
JUNE, 1969
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