When my parents divorced, Mum had me the majority of the week - music practice, after school activities, the majority of home work - Dad had me one week night, every Friday night, and every other weekend. It was fun at Dad’s we did fun things and he treated me. I loved him totally and he was a great Dad (and did do proper parenting) but it was probably closer to going to the grandparents than the real realities of being parented. So my poor mother took the brunt of the crap bits - making me do homework and practice things and go to school.
Added to that, deep down I felt like Dad had abandoned me. I imagine, however good parents are at managing separation, this always happens. So there was always a part of me who thought he might do it fully. Especially when he remarried and they started talking about starting a family. I felt like the forgotten one. (And, I say again that this was the case even though he was pretty wonderful as a Dad and talked to me, was a constant presence, made me feel always wanted).
Mum got the hard reality. The upset and the anger. But it wasn’t that I wanted to attack her, it was because I was a child and I was terrified. And, because it was so desperately hard for her, I also got her anger too. It must have been so hard for her. But, a child can never know. It often takes until their twenties after all for a child to really appreciate that parents are people with feelings and lives and desires and emotions. Children are wholly selfish, even the most caring and lovely ones. The universe revolves around them.
And too, children love treats and glamour and fun. To this day I still feel incredibly guilty that, when I was about five, I told my local grandparents that for the holidays I was going to visit my ‘favourite’ grandparents. They were my favourites because they spoiled me. My other grandparents were my constant, they supported me, and helped raise me really. But they were, in their constancy, less glamorous and fun. I spent years trying to make up for that. And they knew how much I adored them, but I still hate that five year old me did that.
Not advice I’m afraid. Just some sympathy to you and my memory of being a child through a similar situation. It must be so very hard.