The bigger person

I’m on my way to pick up my son.

He just spent three weeks at his dad’s. A stretch of summer I spent counting down. And I know this is only one of many pickups ahead. A decade more, at least, of this back and forth. Drop-offs. Pickups. Holding it together, then crying in the car. And doing it all over again.

We divorced when he was seven months old.

And every time I pull into that driveway, or wait by the door, my heart breaks all over again.

There’s always a wave of sadness. A quiet, sharp

this isn’t how it was supposed to be

This wasn’t the childhood I imagined for him.

He’s so small. And already, he’s navigating two different homes, two different sets of rules, two different ideas about what a family is supposed to be. And in our case… they don’t really match.

We don’t agree on a lot ... not anymore. Not since the divorce. Not since the dad moved on, fast and publicly, with the woman who had already been in the picture.

But here we are.

And I keep trying.

I keep trying to protect my son from all of it.

I make space for his father, even when his father doesn’t ask for it. I remind family and friends - over and over again - that they are not to say anything negative about the father in front of my son. Not a tone. Not a look. Not a single snide remark. Because whatever the past is between the adults, my son doesn’t deserve to carry it.

And yes, that means I have to be the bigger person.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And honestly? Sometimes I hate it.

Sometimes I don’t want to rise above. Sometimes I want to be petty. I want to snap back. I want to gloat when I’m right. I want to say, “See? This is exactly what I said would happen,” and feel that small, sharp satisfaction of being proven right.

I want to stop swallowing my feelings in the name of fairness. I want someone else to carry the weight for once.

But I don’t get to.

Because I have a son.

And he deserves better than bitterness.

He deserves a home where he’s not caught in the crossfire of quiet digs and passive-aggressive silences. He deserves to love both his parents, freely.

And so I keep being the bigger person. Because in the end, this isn’t about me. This is about a little boy who didn’t ask for any of this. And if there’s one thing I can control in all of it, it’s how I show up.

So I drive. I pick him up. I smile when I see him.