In 1988, when I got a divorce, I remember feeling sad because I would never have a “real” family and that my child’s life would forever be fractured and broken. I knew all the statistics. Children from “broken” homes were more likely to suffer through the same ill-fated relationships. Children from “broken” homes were more likely to be fatherless. Children from “broken” homes were more likely to fail in school, less likely to get an advanced education. Fatherless daughters more likely to wind up as streetwalkers; it went on and on.

The thing that hurt even more was that our church home was even broken. Prohibited by my church, divorce was highly frowned upon even in the face of extraordinary abuses, repeated adultery, alcoholism, and drug and gambling addictions. Abandonment by my church family exacerbated my isolation from society. At a time when my daughter and I needed more support than ever, none came. Not anything that would really work, anyway. Told to pray for my soul, to never marry again, and devote my life to God and my daughter, only then could forgiveness be mine.

The thing is I knew deep down that all of this was wrong. I knew that forgiveness was in my reach, and that I had to leave that marriage. If I had not left one of us would be in jail for murder, and that would have been a lot worse on our daughter than a divorce. I knew that God would not want me to live like that or raise my daughter like that. I had no choice but to leave. I did, with 100 dollars in my pocket, my daughter on my hip, and two suitcases.

I was 17 when I got married, so I was very naïve. Even when I left him when I was 21 years old, I was still ignorant to the world. I thought it would be easy to get a job, an apartment, a sitter. I really believed that I could do it on my own. I didn’t even have a car. I left my husband in another country, going back to the states, empty handed.

I moved in with my parents for about a month. I got a job the very day after arriving. I had my own apartment a month later. Over the next few years I struggled working long hours at menial jobs, my daughter was in daycare. I worked third shift and tried going to school during the day. I didn’t get welfare. I did not get child support for a long time because I really did not know about these things.

As the years passed and my daughter grew I still felt horrible because she did not have a real daddy. I had ruined her life. We were poor. We lived in a dump. I drove a car I got for $300, so you can imagine what that looked like. I was tired, run down, and sick of doing everything alone. I almost longed for the way it was in my marriage because at least we had some regular comforts and I got to be with my daughter.

One day, my daughter and I had a rare day off; we were sitting together on the couch. She was chattering away. She was laughing. She had joy in her eyes. She was telling me all about “school”, which is what she called her daycare. She told me the “daddy” teacher let her write with the big kids and that she could read. I had not had time to sit with her and read a book for a long time. I told her to show me, go get your book. She did. She read it to me. It was, The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. While she read it, I had tears steaming down my face because I realized we are a family, she and I.

Destroyed? Not this family! We were not broken. She was not broken. She was not from a broken home. I worked like many mothers, we struggled like many families, and she went to daycare like many children. When we were together, we were happy, healthy, and whole. We were a family, she and I.

The next day as I dropped my daughter off at “school” and she grinned, from ear to ear, and ran into her classroom I left her with a much happier heart because I knew we were going to be ok.

I had forgiven myself.