Modern Love: Our friendly and gentle divorce, in which no one had to move

When my ex -husband's girlfriend left the bathroom wrapped in a towel, with her brown hair dripping, she ran into me, the ex -wife, who ran out of the room that they usually share, with the dirty clothes of my ex -husband in the arms.

"Hello, I was picking up your...”, I said before running to the floor below, where I was washing the clothes.

I can think of few moments that better capture that era of our lives:

I with the dirty clothes of my ex in my arms, trying to disappear as if it were the domestic employee of a volatile celebrity.

For two people who need a prefix of denial to refer to each other, my ex and I have had a fairly flexible border between my house and yours.

He and I live in apartments separated from a family BI house in Brooklyn.

Our 8 -year -old son can run away to pray to his father to let him play Minecraft and go down running to eat with me the cheerios they like.

I get in the department of my ex when I need chia seeds for a recipe and he knocks on my door when I need help to reconfigure a clock that is too high for me.

We have been more than two years.

Technically, we are still married, although we already ask for divorce.

It seems that some of the neighbors still think we are together.

The friendly pharmacist always asks how he is doing and sends his greetings.

But we are not a couple:

We no longer share the bed, we no longer kiss, we no longer turn to make the salad, we no longer give each other in the back, we no longer dream of trips to Italy, we no longer hugged ourselves in public, we no longer fight because thePersianas are crooked, we no longer commission our intimacy for Netflix, we no longer pay a couples counselor, we no longer hope to fix our relationship.

However, for a while we remain entangled in the life of the other, so the woman with whom he is building intimacy and confidence surprised me in the act of doing a wife's homework.

After that, we decided that the division between our spaces needed lighter limits.

Some things had to change, including the task of washing clothes.

It may be difficult to imagine feelings or agreements for those who do not have a language.

For example, learning the word "Schadenfreude" to name that dark feeling inside was, for me, as the pleasure of trying a totally new kitchen.

When I learned that word, I not only freed myself from the shame of that feeling, but I could also laugh at myself.

We do not have the right vocabulary for our relationships with our former spouses.

The term "ex" carries a burden.

The symbol of the "X" is a stud, as if by getting married and divorciarte you would have made an error that must be cut with a great red pen.

Or maybe the X is an approach (the meeting point of two diagonal lines) and then separate.

However, like many ex, we share a child:

We will never separate at all.

Unlike many ex, we share a checking account and a home.

My ex is the source of the chromosome and that generated our son, with whom he makes musical videos (he piano, the child in the drums) and whom he takes from camp for days for days.

My ex lives on the top floor, I am encouraged to have appointments, send me text messages with the updates of the centers for disease control and prevention, discuss the limits between our departments to have an opportunity to build a love relationshipWith his girlfriend (that I like) and send me text messages from the grocery store to see if I need something.

Our marriage did not work, but we have maximized our separation.

When I was a child, in the 1980s, divorce meant war.

If the children were not the weapons, they were the victims.

There were battles for custody, friends who chose sides, lawyers as strategists and generals.

Something like "Kramer vs Kramer".

Awakening in a Holiday Inn with your mother's statement that he was going to divorce your evil father;a father who was denied the right of visit after the mother convinced the judge that he was not suitable.

The children of my generation (the generation X, coincidentally) were raised with stories about the morning stench of the ex, their ineptitude in the kitchen, their refusal to pay the alimony.

At present, we have our mediators.

We can keep our friends.

We do not abuse our children with hate.

It is a friendly and gentle era, but we still don't have the words.

I think we all agree that "conscious decoupling" is not exactly what is said.

This is an example: the word "friendly".

It means that there is no resentment or disagreement.

You meet people who say their divorces are friendly.

It's like using "tolerance" when talking about diversity:

The word implies a brave effort to replace exasperation of patience to be able to endure the other.

"Our divorce is friendly," you hear and feel sorry for others.

Even in your efforts to describe your friendly relationship with your ex, which is not exempt from discomfort, you must admit that the language of hostility is integrated into your language.

My ex the girlfriend moved to the top floor.

Therefore, I have stopped washing your clothes and I no longer find fine strands of your silver hair curled in my stockings.

Nor do I running to pick up my work from the house printer, which is on the top floor, or take almond butter from my ex's pantry when I end, nor do I verify that our child has enough half up there.

Now that my ex has a partner, a person who must reconcile with the idea of this novel form of copaternity, no longer crosses the threshold of his department without being invited.

There are many more text messages.

Yes, he spoke with me.

With many unnecessary grimaces and apologies, my ex explained that I can no longer enter his department as well as.

I can be a bit clumsy, but not so much to understand that protecting the couple's privacy is essential for the cultivation of a relationship.

I know and regret that having the ex -wife living on the floor below costs them.

Of course, there are romantic costs for both parties.

This is an appointment when your ex -husband shares a family BI house with you:

A man approaches, leans to give the first kiss and hey your son's steps in the department above.

Try to ignore it, but you can't help thinking:

"His son's father is just above us".

That night you look good and, although you have little control, your charm has made an appearance.

Even so, nothing ends with the moment like the footsteps of an ex on the floor above.

"Can you hear us?" Asks your companion, panting.

"Not at all," you answer, kissing his neck.

"I can hear them," he whispers.

“Yes, but not the words, right?Only the sounds ".

"Very good," he says.

"It's okay".

The next time they meet, he tells you that they are just friends.

Costs also include sometimes a magnification of your loneliness.

It is night, you are cooking and listening to several podcast, both to have a company and to have stimulation.

For the rest, there is an unusual silence in your department:

Your ex took your son north of the state for a few days and there is no one to pray that you play Minecraft.

His girlfriend stayed and you can hear his voice up, but not his words.

Most likely she and your ex are talking.

They remind you that intimacy continues without you.

Also love.You are the one left over.

But you also get what you pay.

Because you love your child, because being the main father makes sense to your family, because your ex is still as hilarious as ever, because his girlfriend is kind and fun and playful with your son and because you choose love about hate and whatIt works on unnecessary suffering, you use the imagination, you deviate from the script, you decide to better prepare future quotes in the unusual situation, you accept that you would have to deal with loneliness in any way, respect the new limits and invent the guidelines on the fly,even if you don't have the words or script.

My son asks: "Do I sleep here tonight?".

Yes, he sleeps down with me, but his book forgot.

The child is the only one who has a free way in place.

Run to the department of your ex, where the couple is having dinner at the kitchen table.

His little voice is heard and his mature voices respond.

The camera goes back.

The building is like the stage of a play where you can see through the fourth wall.

Two people are having dinner at the upper floor kitchen table;One is down, to the left of the stage, washing the dishes.

A child looks down the stairs, with a book in his hand.

Jordana Jacobs is a writer in Brooklyn who is working in her first novel.

c.2022 The New York Times Company

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