The Questions Divorce Makes You Answer At Bedtime

The questions usually come after the lights are off — innocent, unplanned, impossible.

It was the night of my 39th birthday, and I was lying in the dark beside my 4-year-old son, watching him as he drifted toward sleep. I know he’s close when he rests his right cheek on the pillow, facing away from me, his body finally slowing down.

Turning 39 left me thinking about everything I got wrong over the last year. I reflected back, taking stock of everything I’d failed at. All the ways I’d messed things up. What I hadn’t done. What I still hadn’t figured out. The things I thought I’d be past by now. The choices I made that led me here instead.

The year behind me felt wasted. I left so many questions unanswered.

He’d been quiet for a while. Long enough that I thought he was asleep. But he wasn’t.

“Mommy,” he said. “When can we see a rainbow?”

“They aren’t out at night, honey. Next time it rains we’ll have to look for one.”

“But I want to see one now.”

I wished I could give him what he was asking for. Instead, I said, “Maybe you can dream about them, and we can look in the morning.”

He started to cry. “I don’t want to look in the morning.”

And, then, through his tears, “Mommy, why are we the only ones who live here?”

“What?” I said.

“Why don’t other people live with us?”

“Who do you want to live with us?”

“My dad,” he said. “I want my dad to live with us. Why can’t he live with us?”

I felt sick — like everything inside me had been ripped out, like I couldn’t remember how to breathe. I didn’t speak immediately… not just to keep myself from crying, but to buy myself time.

I could feel him waiting beside me as answers swirled in my head, each one wrong in a different way. Too much. Too little. Too honest. Too hollow. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing and having it stay with him. Afraid of saying nothing and having that stay with him.

Finally, I spoke. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I said. Then, “I promise, OK?”

He rolled onto his side and went quiet, trusting he’d have an answer from me in the morning.

I lay there after, furious with myself. And then it hit me: There is no answer I can give, no version of this conversation that doesn’t hurt him. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not after I’ve had more time to think or read or practice the right words. No matter what I say, it won’t be what he’s hoping for.

So what scared me wasn’t that I didn’t have the right answer then — it was realizing there might not be one. That this wouldn’t be a one-time conversation, but a question that would keep coming back, evolving and changing shape as he does. And that no matter what I do, I’ll always be the one who lets him down.

When I finally left the room, I texted his father.

Rough night. I’m really f*cking emotional right now so probably best to talk tomorrow, but this was bedtime about 45 minutes ago.

I sent him the dialogue between our son and me. Just wasn’t ready for that tonight.

He wrote back: Sorry. I’m sure all this moving is confusing for him.

They had just gone from the house we lived in together to his grandmother’s house, then back.

The next day, I texted him again. At some point, can we talk more about what Joey asked?

He didn’t respond.

The day after that, he texted me about our schedule. That’s when I realized I’d broken my promise.

The morning after my birthday, it seemed Joey had forgotten. He had his chocolate milk. He got ready for school. He didn’t mention rainbows or who lives with us or why. But I hadn’t forgotten.

His question stayed with me. I replayed the conversation in my head. Later, alone, I let myself answer honestly.

Why can’t your dad live with us? Because being in the same house was destroying me.

Because we don’t bring out the best in each other. Because he didn’t make me feel loved, and I couldn’t live like that.

But none of those answers belonged to a 4-year-old. What he needed was something else. So I went looking for gentler words, kinder ones. I read about how to strip the truth down until it fit into language that wouldn’t scare him.

Because sometimes grown-ups find it hard to live together, even though they still care about each other.

Because we love you so much and thought we could do a better job taking care of you if we lived in two houses.

Because this is how Mommy and Daddy can be the best parents for you.

I have answers now — ready, locked away, for the next time he asks. Ones I’ve convinced myself will work. Ones I hope won’t make him feel worse. But so far, he hasn’t asked again.

So each night, I curl myself around him and wait for his breathing to change, for his body to soften, for him to fall asleep before the question comes back. And until he does, I lie there beside him, bracing for impact. Afraid that the next time he asks, I’ll still be there with words I don’t believe — an explanation that leaves him hoping for something else. Like a rainbow in the dark.

Sarah Michelle Sherman is a writer based in Albany, New York. Her work has appeared in HuffPost, Today, Parents, and other outlets. She is currently working on a collection of personal essays exploring depression, motherhood, the end of her marriage, and the search for identity through it all. Through raw, honest storytelling, she aims to challenge the mental health stigma and spark deeper conversations about parenting, relationships, and the complexities of being human.