Secrets to a successful marriage

A short separation
We hit the marital skids about 17 years in, for all the usual midlife reasons: health troubles, work troubles, money troubles. As is so often the case, a pile of petty grievances had smothered the smouldering flame of our mutual regard. After months of halfhearted marriage counselling, and with a great deal of jaw-flapping and finger-pointing, Brad moved out.

It still shames me to think of the way our children -- then 10 and seven -- wailed at the door and tried to block his leaving. It was only for a short time but it made an impact on our children. As Kathryn wrote in her card: “My worst memories are of the [time] you separated, because I was so afraid I would lose the security I had in your relationship.” Later, Adam confirmed that those four weeks were also the most unsettling of his young life.

Survival skills
It was during those 30 horrible days, with the children going back and forth between Brad and I, trying not to show too much excitement about seeing their daddy, that I saw clearly what I was prepared to risk for the sake of stubborn pride. My children were becoming experts at editing their conversations so as not to hurt or irritate me by any mention of their father -- a much-loathed survival skill I myself had perfected years earlier.

As I reflected on this second generation of shuttered hearts, I came to realize that nothing was so broken in our marriage that it couldn't be fixed -- maybe not right away, but over time, the way you patiently revive a tired house.

Coming to a realization
Years after our separation, when I read Tim O'Brien's bittersweet novel July, July, in which one character ascribed the unnecessary end of his youthful marriage to “a failure of imagination, the inability to divine a happy ending,” I understood precisely what he meant. Before Brad left, I'd devoted my energy to conjuring how I'd make life work without him. In the trenches of single parenthood, I had plenty of opportunity -- and motivation -- to imagine a happier ending.

I thought about Brad and myself as grey-haired 70-year-olds, dandling grandchildren on our knees. I pictured my children coming home 17 years into their own marriages to ask for advice on how to make it work. I imagined a funeral -- maybe mine, maybe Brad's -- where our children would reminisce about our marriage. I imagined, in short, a legacy of love and honour, and that most old-fashioned of words -- duty.

Page 2 of 3