This is what love looks like. This is what complete vulnerability, flexibility, and choosing positivity over pain looks like. This is “do it for the kids” at its purest.
I remember mostly the good times. He remembers the bad alongside the good. I suppose that’s the optimist in me and the realist in him. Either way, he was worn down by my sharpness, and I was exhausted from his painful choices and his tendency to pull away. Over the years, a series of extraordinarily painful events had gradually led us to a place of distance, isolation, and unspoken resentment.
Some of you know the details. For those who don’t, I hope you can find peace in continuing not to. I’ve received countless messages and texts filled with love, always followed by, “So… what happened?” Truthfully, I just want to move forward, to stop rehashing old wounds.
So let this serve as the story and the closure: After 16 years together—dating since we were 14 in high school—Kyle moved out. Last week, the man of my dreams and the father of my two incredible children told me he was done. I was shocked. Why now? Why this moment? Why would he do this to me? To our kids?
Our 6th wedding anniversary, marking 16 years together, had just passed on February 6th, and I felt betrayed. Our marriage had grown sharp-tongued and bitter over the past six years, though we had been living together even longer. We thought this was normal. But it wasn’t. We had begun fighting in front of our children, breaking a promise we had made long before becoming parents.
Two little boys running down the stairs together, filled with life and laughter, became witnesses to moments we had once kept behind closed doors or argued out in the late-night hours long past their bedtime. On rare, shameful occasions, they even had to yell to pull us apart. Thankfully, these instances were few, but the escalation worried both of us deeply.
Kyle, grounded and thoughtful, decided a change was necessary. He has always struggled with anxiety and depression; I have long carried the weight of PTSD and the fallout from my own parents’ divorce. For this reason, I had always forbidden even the thought of divorce, believing that our love and our marriage could shield our children from our struggles. It turns out the protection came in an entirely unexpected form.
This wasn’t our first breakup, but it was the first while married and raising kids. Thankfully, our years of splitting, reuniting, and truly learning one another’s every nuance had gifted us with a communication style capable of repairing almost anything.
Now, we exist in a space of loving respect, deep empathy, and unconditional care. We are in a place where we know, without a doubt, that we will always be friends and that we will always be okay. It would be dishonest to say we won’t always love each other. After spending over half our lives together, we are forever woven into one another’s DNA.
As a child of divorce, I had sworn I would never divorce. Ever. I believed that as long as love existed somewhere—and the marriage was valid—there was always hope. I still believe this. By our own logic, divorce is not an option. Kyle still loves me deeply, as I do him. Our chemistry is undeniable—even in anger, we are like magnets, irresistibly drawn together. With no option to divorce, yet no viable option to continue the marriage as it was, we are embracing a different solution.
Kyle moved into his new place last week. He explained that he needed space to heal, to start fresh, and asked me to do the same. He supported me fully in the transition. I kept all that mattered to me, and he gained a home filled with the “new”—which has always been his thing. To the kids, we framed it as an exciting adventure: “You get to play with Daddy at his new house!” Just like visits to Grandma’s, this would be another fun, safe place to explore and feel loved.
It wasn’t easy at first. I hated him. The thought of him being away from our children, even briefly, made my stomach churn. I imagined every way I could be hurt, every angle of anger and resentment, and felt miserable. I screamed, cried, and sobbed to friends and family. I drove long nights, processing my heartbreak, missing my children with every mile. But eventually, I returned with renewed understanding—of love, of Kyle’s maturity, and, most importantly, of what was best for our kids.
In reclaiming a less-selfish approach to motherhood, I realized this needed to happen. After a week of anger and pain, I am embracing change, and love in all its forms. Kyle and I wrote a fair, equal plan for the kids’ visits between our homes.
I dropped them off today to check his new space. What I found was a devoted father who had already addressed every concern I had mentioned. I felt confident, in that moment, that he would thrive there. I am certain he will gain gratitude for the work I do as a mother, and he will grow through this experience. I am so fortunate to have a man who loves our children—and me—so completely.
His lease is month-to-month. There is no deadline for moving back together, if ever. Our only constraints are financial, and we are both hard-working enough to support this happier, healthier arrangement. We are amicable. We are still married. We are still in love. I still call his mom “Mom” and cherish his family as my own. I am still a Silliman. And our kids? They now have two homes, and double the love.
Tomorrow, we begin marriage counseling with a new therapist. Maybe it’s unconventional to move out before therapy, but if we can heal old wounds and learn to love each other more deeply through this, we may eventually return to a single home filled with peace and happiness. For now, I am excited—for Kyle’s fresh start, my own freedom, and the joy of sharing our kids’ new adventures with family and friends.
I ask only that people respect Kyle’s privacy. He is naturally private, and I will honor that. He has chosen to focus on himself, not dating, while we navigate this transition. Please support him, give him space, and refrain from negative commentary about either of us. We remain friends first, and I will not tolerate attacks on those I love.
As always, thank you for your love and support. I am deeply touched by friends and family who have cried, messaged, and given us their all. I don’t deserve you, and yet I am grateful beyond words. I look forward to sharing more of our lives, our children’s adventures, and our love—even in this new, unconventional form. This is real love in action, not the kind you see on TV.
