I prepared the family meal, as usual. The table was set for at least ten of us, and my father took his spot at the head of the table. I had served my maternal grandfather his dinner in his room, and I was sitting just outside his bedroom at our dining room table. I sat where I had a vantage point to see if he were done eating, or needed something else. I was the primary caregiver to my grandfather. I was not his favorite, and he let me know that. He did, however, appreciate on most days that I took care of him. I was fifteen years old. Number seven, out of eleven children. My parents were married twenty-eight years.

So, it was on this evening as we were eating, my father in his three-piece suit tells us that he has something to say. You have to understand that we would not have ignored him, as my father was a commanding presence when he entered any room. The dining room was no different. Table manners were required, and we were not allowed to behave in a boisterous way. He was at the head of the table and usually had our attention as he questioned our day. This day was different. He was very serious as he put his elbow on the table and leaned his head to one side as he pushed up his glasses.

“Your mother wants a divorce.” I am sure there was audibly gasping at the table, as we dropped our forks. None of us saw that one coming. Don’t get me wrong. My parents fought and fought often. My dad had been a drinker, but at this point, I believe was “on the wagon.” And anyway, it did not matter to us kids, as he was always so nice when he drank. Not a mean drunk. My mother was eccentric and could change her mind on a dime. You never knew from one moment to the next what she wanted. An only child, she was accustomed to her way, and somehow we were just along for the ride. To us kids, it was our own kind of “normal”, and if nothing else, we always had each other. But either way you looked at it, we were pretty much the norm for the time, except that there were eleven of us, and most thought we were a crazy bunch. Too many children! We lived in a small coastal town, and everyone knew everyone else. We attended the local Catholic Church, and my parents were pretty much pillars of their community. I did not know many divorced families, but when the divorce rate escalated, it seemed to be an avalanche that crushed many a family in our small town.

At this point in my father’s announcement, someone graciously closed my grandfather’s door. It might have been me, but I don’t remember. I do remember that my mother was not present for this family meeting. My dad was alone for this life-changing event.

He explained that not only did my mother want a divorce, but that she intended to marry another man and move up to Northern California to live with him. This new man promised her a better life. My father agreed not to contest the divorce, as I believe a husband still could do in 1978. Again, I am not sure, and we were shielded from that part of the ugly process.

My father assured us that he would be here. He would care for us, and my maternal grandfather, and that my mother would come home on weekends. He laid it all out for us in a pretty concise way. There were a few caveats. We were not allowed to tell a soul. We could not tell our friends. None of our relatives were to know. None.

I am not sure if we spoke to each other that evening, but I know we all moved on to our rooms or went about our homework duties in a kind of trance-like state. It had to be a bad dream. Parents with huge families did not divorce. What would everyone think? What would we do? What if my mother made us move? A real possibility in a time when a mother almost always got the children in the divorce. We did not want to leave. Still seven children at home. I was the oldest girl. We were not moving.

I can’t remember how much time had passed before I saw my mother, but I do remember her acting as if nothing had happened and divorce was the way of the world. She made it sound simple. She would come home every weekend! She told me I was grown and did not really need her anymore. In my mind I needed her more than ever! “It will be great! You can come for the summer”! Whohoo! Well, not me. I wasn’t going. I was mad as hell, and felt betrayed. Betrayed by the mother who was supposed to stay until the last kid was out. She was not allowed to “quit” her job! Her life was pretty damn good in my eyes. Oh sure, they fought, but who didn’t? My father adored her deep down in his soul. He was crushed. In my mind, I felt abandoned. This was the year it all fell apart…into a million little pieces. I cannot speak for the other six siblings that were still home, or the other four that had lives of their own.

This is my story…I can only speak for me.