Dad Mode: Half Time, Full Heart

Last night, we told the boys.

It’s hard to even type that. I’ve been dreading this moment for months, and now that it’s happened, I’m not sure I’ll ever forget it — or recover from it.

The night before, I sat with the nine-year-old before he went up to bed, so content, so full of trust. Just a little boy, unaware of the shift about to hit his world. I remember thinking: this is the last night he’ll go to sleep believing his mummy and daddy are together. The last night that version of our family, in his eyes, was whole.

And now that moment is gone.

Telling them both — sitting down and actually saying the words — was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do.

I started gently, trying to explain that they might have noticed mummy and daddy haven’t been talking or hugging as much lately. The nine-year-old just looked at me, his voice quivering as he said “no.” That tiny word. That little wobble. It was like hearing his innocence crack.

And then came the “why?” when I said we’d be living apart. The disbelief. The confusion. The heartbreak in his eyes. A look that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

It was like watching his whole world collapse in a few seconds — and I was the one holding the sledgehammer.

I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. But it was my voice delivering the words, and I worry that it’ll always be my voice he remembers when he thinks back to last night. I’ll always be the one who broke the news, the one who shattered the safe and secure bubble he’s lived in. That’s something I’ll carry with me.

The questions came fast, especially from the five-year-old:

“Does it have to happen?”

“Which mummy will live with daddy?”

“Will I have a new mummy?”

“Will you still talk to each other face to face?”

“Why is mummy moving out?”

“Where will me and [his brother] go?”

I wasn’t ready. There’s no way to be ready.

Both of them were crying. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt more helpless. Or more like a failure. As a parent, your instinct is to protect your kids from pain — not be the one delivering it straight to their hearts.

Afterward, the nine-year-old just shut down. Quiet. Went to watch YouTube. I could see it in his face — that look of being completely shell shocked. Later he picked up his game, trying to lose himself in Zelda. Huffing, deep breaths, little signs of a mind trying desperately to comprehend something too big for him to hold.

The five-year-old had more questions for his mum. He’s younger, but he processes by asking. I think he’ll start rationalising things sooner — but that doesn’t mean he’s not hurting.

They’re going to be so different in how they carry this.

And I worry about the nine-year-old. He’s so sensitive, so gentle. I don’t want this to scar him.

We’ll be okay — I know that deep down — but the road ahead feels long.

I just keep thinking about the nine-year-old’s face. The way he looked at me. The way his world shifted.

I hope one day he understands. I hope one day they both do.

For now, I’m just trying to hold it together. For them. Even when I feel broken myself.

For anyone facing the same conversation this page really helped as a template for what to say. It still felt awful, but at least we had a plan for what to say.