My biggest worry, when I divorced my first husband, was the effect our split might have on our son. He was just over a year old when my ex and I separated, and although I was certain that the decision was right for us, I agonised about the effect it would have on him.
To be clear, I was in no doubt that the marriage was over and that we would both be better off apart. I was certain that, in time, my ex and I would both meet new people and perhaps even remarry. And that has proved to be the case. Between us, we have gone on to have a further 7 children.
But for many years I was burdened with guilt. Was I causing my son irreparable emotional damage by raising him alone? Had I put my own wellbeing above his?
I would listen, on a loop, to "Your Mother and I", a heartbreaking song by Loudon Wainwright III about the effects of marital breakdown on young children. (If you haven't heard it, and you're a divorcee with young kids, stop reading this and download that track right away). As I listened to the final lyrics, "Your parents are people and that's all we can be", a nagging thought pestered in my brain. Is it all I can be? Couldn't I, shouldn't I, have tried harder to avoid this?
For many years, indeed for the bulk of his childhood, I raised my son as a single parent. By the time he started primary school, his father had moved and settled abroad. And so I went on my own to parent-teacher consultations. I sat by myself in the audience when he participated in school plays. And as I watched his gangly frame awkwardly navigate the football pitch, I wondered how different he might have been, on the soccer field if nowhere else, had his dad still been around.
But while I worried and fretted, something remarkable happened.
My son grew up.
In fact, he didn't just grow up. He thrived. He worked hard at school, where it was clear pretty early on that he was exceptionally bright. He developed an interest in cricket, and politics, and Doctor Who. He learnt to be an exceptional friend, someone that his peers could rely on for support. And he developed a wicked sense of humour.
It was only when he was 16, during a random conversation with a stranger, that I was finally able to let go of the guilt. I was at a work conference, making small talk with one of the other participants, when the subject of children came up. I found myself admitting, perhaps in an inappropriate moment of over sharing, that I still had residual guilt that my son had grown up in a broken home. To which my conversation partner replied, "There's no such thing as a broken home. Only broken people."
It was a moment of revelation. I felt, in that split second, a weight of guilt lift from my shoulders. Years of worry and doubt and internalised judgement evaporated. I felt free.
I also felt unbelievably proud.
For the first time, I was able to see that my son had thrived, not in spite of his parents' divorce, but because of it. I was able to acknowledge, that he wasn't a child of divorce. He was a child of strong, determined and devoted parenting. I hadn't modelled failure. I had modelled independence, and perseverance, and tenacity.
I wouldn't have written any of this down, let alone share it, had it not been for Doria Ragland. As I watched her sitting alone in the pews, I remembered all those school concerts, and assemblies, and end-of-term plays, where I too sat alone. Smiling, bursting with pride, but nonetheless alone.
And as Meghan walked herself down the aisle, watched by a TV audience of millions, I was reminded that children of divorce are not the children of failure. They are the product of strong, independent, tenacious love.
Those of us, like Doria, who have raised our children alone, are not broken. We are amazing. And our children are amazing too.