It’s So Funny How We Don’t Talk Anymore (Ode to Cliff Richard)
My ex-wife got remarried two weeks ago. It hardly registered, good, bad or indifferent. Our past time together is so distant now.
We’ll be forever connected by our two kids, 19 and 16. Other than that, I can’t say I know her at all anymore. It’s strange how someone once so important can become so inconsequential – her to me and me to her – except for the perpetual link. That’s just the way it is.
I briefly sensed caring from my ex-wife when my mother died in October 2013 and she attended the memorial. That’s the last time. It’s strange to feel like you don’t matter much to someone when at one time you mattered a lot.
We met at college when we were 19, and dated senior year. She was editor of the college newspaper, the overachiever. I was a writer, not as driven or intense. It was kind of always like that. We went separate ways after college, and after a year, the relationship flamed out.
We rekindled a long-distance relationship at 29, and got married at 30, at our alma mater. It was a pretty cool, lost-and-found love story. It didn’t last.
We split up after 11 years in 2005, when the kids were still in elementary school. Eerily, the kids were about exactly the same age as my brother and I when my parents split up. The protracted end was awful. The final break up was a relief.
As the kids have gotten older, we’ve communicated less and less. I’ve barely talked to her the last several years. When I do try to discuss something concerning the kids, she usually has somewhere to go, something else to do, another call to make. I’m accustomed to squeezing any conversation into three minutes or less.
Over beers on a trip to Florida with my good friend, when we talk openly about jobs, marriage, kids, sex, and old girlfriends, the topic of my relationship with my ex-wife came up and how well we communicate for the sake of the kids. I told him we’ve done a really good job. The kids are well-adjusted – one is in college, and the other is on track. Neither has suffered any manifest big problems due to the divorce. We must be communicating well, I told him.
“No, you don’t. You don’t communicate at all,” he assessed. It hit me. He was right. We talk the bare minimum — the occasional money or scheduling issue. Maybe that’s all there should be between divorced parents. Maybe that’s more than a lot of divorced couples. Regardless, it still strikes me as sad that as the parents of two kids, forever joined by that bond, I know so little about how she parents and her thoughts about the kids’ futures, their current challenges, how they’ve changed and adjusted as teenagers, how they can develop their potentials, whether she has any concerns, and if so, how to address them.
I’ve grown weary of trying to engage. It’s easier not to, though it doesn’t strike me as the best approach. But maybe this is the way divorce should be. Leave it to history. Everyone moves on. We don’t talk anymore.