The warnings came from friends. When I’d tell them I was getting divorced, one thing they would say was: “If Kate remarries, you won’t like it when your son tells another man, ‘I love you.’”
I heard them. I just didn’t believe it. I thought I was above the petty jealousy it implied.
To my ex-wife’s credit, when divorce was inevitable, she said what I’d been thinking but was too sheepish to utter: “We have to remain friends” — for our son, for his happiness. And, as I learned many years later, for ours.
It made sense to me at a visceral level, and also from my experience as a longtime crime reporter. I’d witnessed the fury of divorce through stories about felonies and misdemeanors committed by and against exes. I’d seen countless children used as pawns in family court by parents determined to inflict pain on the person they used to love.
In my mind, nothing was more important than my son’s happiness. And if Kate found someone new and remarried — and if my son loved that man as a father, and he loved my son the way I do — how could that be bad? At least, that’s what I told myself.
At the same time, a nagging thought was never far from my mind: Is this going to ruin our son? Is our divorce going to be the millstone he carries, the destructive cycle he repeats as he grows into a man? I had no good examples to follow, just this advice from a therapist: “The longer you wait (to get divorced) after he’s 2 years old, the greater the psychological impact will be.”
He was almost 3. The therapist’s advice was all I had. Like every parent, I had no idea what to expect.
ONE THING KATE and I decided right off the bat was that we weren’t going to force our son to go from one home to another. We were divorcing — why should he be the one who had to uproot himself each week?
So, we settled on him staying with her in what had been our house in marriage. I would try to find another home as close as possible to them. The idea was this: I’d have a key to their house; I’d always be welcome there; and I’d be able to see my son as often as I liked. I’d go in the morning, get him ready for school, and drop him off, or I’d pick him up in the afternoon and take him home — sometimes both.
Sounds easy, right? Well, there were some pretty big hurdles to getting there. No reporter is rich, and this was in the mid-2000s when home values were skyrocketing. So, when I won the bid for a house a few blocks away, I cashed in my 401k to make a large enough down payment to afford the monthly mortgage payments. (Warning: Pay all the 401k early-withdrawal penalties! The IRS will remember, if you don’t.)
Then, when Kate started dating, I wanted to meet the guys to get a sense of their character. One was a magician; one was a chef; there might’ve been a banker in there somewhere. I didn’t care what they did for a living, but I wondered if they’d be good for my son. Would I grow to like them? And back to my friends’ warnings: How would I feel if my son ended up loving one of them as a parent? As “Dad.”
ONE MORNING, WHILE I made my son breakfast — scrambled eggs, which I made every morning when I went to their house to get him ready for school — Kate pulled up a dating website. There was Todd’s photo. I could tell immediately: “I like him,” I said.
I still did after meeting him — and still do. We had similar senses of humor. I admired how he infused his immense creativity into business.
But the question lingered: How would I take it if he was “the one” for Kate, and my son ended up calling him “Dad”? And how do you parent one kid with three people? Would my son divorce me from his idea of a father? Would my ego be able to let go?
Over time, Todd left Portland for Las Vegas, moving in with Kate and my son. That was when the arrangement began to come into focus. Very quickly, Todd and I became fast friends. The four of us did holidays together. Todd and Kate announced their engagement in Oregon at his family’s Thanksgiving dinner, which I attended. He and I started writing scripts together under a production company we named “Co-dads.” I looked forward to hanging out with him and, to my surprise, with Kate.
A few years after Todd had moved in, my son started calling me “Joe” and his stepdad, “Todd,” to avoid confusion — because when he yelled “Dad!” we’d both answer. When we visited my mom in Wisconsin, she heard him use the new moniker and gasped, “Did he just call you Joe?” I told her that I liked it. Being called “Joe” made me feel like he was talking to the real me, not a figurative father.
I’ll admit there were moments when I wondered if I was the dad he liked more. I’d swallow those thoughts. This seemed to be working, and I only needed to see my son’s happiness to know that.
IT TOOK A while, but I started to see all three of us parents in our son. From Todd, the filmmaker and screenwriter, he began to devour movies, then start his own writing. From Kate, he got this professorial analysis — impressive but, frankly, sometimes annoying. (“First, Dad,” he’d say, and then make his opening argument. Then, he’d raise another finger for points two, three, and four.)
From me? My dry, odd humor, perhaps. I’m shyer than he is, but he’d say he gets his verve from me, as well as a curiosity about everything.
And that amalgamation fed into his own innate charisma. He took up painting, then learned to play instruments, write music, and do so much more that none of us does. He’s in college in the Pacific Northwest now, studying sociology and business. We are all equally proud of him.
To this day, almost 20 years later, I see the doubtful look when I tell people my ex-wife and her husband are my best friends, when I tell them Todd and I have traveled places to write scripts together. We laugh about what people think, seeing us daily in a coffee shop writing. And we share those stories with my son.
It was at my mom’s funeral six years ago where I got a clear idea of the impact the divorce had on him. In church, my brother’s wife was marveling at the relationship we three parents had. My son perked up: “Yeah, and I’m the beneficiary,” he said.
I don’t know if our situation can be replicated by anyone, but if it can, this is the key: Think of your children, if you have them. And think of the friend you had in the person — your ex — you might hate right now.
You never know; they may end up with someone who becomes a best friend. Or your kid’s Dad 2.
