Dear Morgan,

Today my daughter retweeted your tweet which simply said “wonder what it’s like to not have divorced parents.”

Sometimes it’s lovely. Sparkly in fact; like Christmas. But, only if the parents get along, truly love one another, put their children first, raise them in true partnership and are independently creative, intelligent, hardworking, decent people. And in those rare cases everyone is at the breakfast table together. Mom and Dad may even hold hands at the softball game or laugh at a private joke. Spring Break means a trip to the beach because money isn’t as hard as it is for a divorced family. You are never in the middle unless it is Friday movie night and they are fighting over who gets to cuddle with you. They are both at the concerts, and graduations, and major events like the first time you fall off your bike. You can hear one downstairs while the other is tucking in you. It is lovely.

There is a letter sitting on a shelf just above my desk. This is the very same desk where I sit safely every day to work, or write, or help my kids with their homework. It is the desk where I now enjoy the freedom to create which wasn’t possible before; and listen to my children’s laughter again. This letter sits there with his name clearly visible on the front of the envelope. And yet I never sent it.

I should have.

The women who fortify me gather ‘round like a virtual pashmina ~ never at the same time yet always ~ and they whisper their support through the years as a strong wind at my back pushing me forward and a gentler headwind keeping me upright.

It comes in forms unexpected that rush about with an easy chatter. A bag of groceries and Smithwick’s on my front step when I have been crying all day and am too weary to shop. Soft fingertips through my hair but without the expectation. Salty chicken soup that makes my home smell like home. “Drive by hugs.” Butterfly bushes to welcome me to a new chapter. Safely guarded childhood memories of four – singing sharp, the LifeSaver Game, and buckwheat pancakes after a night in contraband Jordache jeans. Kindness in the absence of judgment when my legs won’t carry me as fast or as far on a run together. Frosting on our noses at every black tie occasion. Pasta with fresh basil and none of the effort while I nurse my newborn twins in front of the bay window. The courageous and honest question I should have answered honestly before venturing down the aisle.