How Can This Divorce Not Be Over?

After our three-year divorce process, I had hoped I could finally put it behind me.

“Mom, what are we making today?” asked my eight-year-old daughter as she skipped into the kitchen wearing her Harry Potter costume.

I raised my eyebrows, holding back a smile. “Walk, please.”

She held her wand in one hand and the cookbook we’re working through in the other. Giving me a big grin, she set the book on the bookrest and opened it to a cupcake recipe. “Can we make these, please, please?”

Before I could answer, the phone rang. It was my ex-husband. The drama — our divorce, felt like it would never be over.

My daughter saw his name on the screen and walked out of the kitchen, shoulders slumped.

“Hold on; I call out to her. I’m sorry, I have to take this.” I made a mental note to have a comfy, cozy sit-down with her.

After the divorce, I didn’t want to answer his calls.

The phone was still ringing. I bit my bottom lip, took a deep breath, and lifted it to my ear. There was hip-hop music blasting in the background. “Hello,” I said in a quiet voice. I headed into the office and shut the door for privacy.

“Must be nice sitting home doing nothing — just collecting my cash. The money I have to work for.”

Wait, what?

As a mom of nine, I don’t ever just sit around. I never have. But more importantly, what cash?

Taking a deep breath, I say nothing.

Responding will do no good. Even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t take his calls anymore, I knew listening to his put-downs was the only way we’d have a chance to get financial support from him.

“You need to get a job like everyone else.”

I could hear his scowl growing deeper with each word.

“I’m doing the best I can. And I’m home raising our children. Someone needs to be here for them; kids can’t raise themselves.”

“Your kids don’t need you — just leave them food in the fridge,” he responded.

“And how am I supposed to put food in the fridge if you’re not giving us money? Money the judge ordered you to pay,” I added. I squeezed my eyes shut, my eyebrows gathered in — I knew I shouldn’t have said it.

“Stupid court. You and your lawyers, you’ll never control me. Maybe ask them to support you and your kids. It seems like you believe in the system more than me. I told you not to get them involved, but you didn’t listen,” he yelled.

“Is there a reason you called?” I asked.

“People with kids work all the time. Are you afraid or too lazy?”

I started to respond but was cut off.

He jumped in, telling one of his favorite put-me-down stories.

It’s about an illegal family with two kids— a relation of some sort.

The parents worked all day in the fields while their kids, three and five, stayed home alone in their apartment. They weren’t allowed to answer the phone or door for anyone, even relatives.

He says the kids from that family turned out good because they learned what real life is.

I can’t possibly understand how difficult living here illegally might be. I’m sure they did the best they could. But he’s telling me this because he believes our kids can watch each other while I work outside the home. It’s my turn to contribute financially.

He believes I baby our kids too much — giving too much of my time is only weakening them.

I can’t recall when exactly his values so drastically changed. It was like a switch flipped overnight. In the last eight months alone, he’s spent more than three months out of the country on numerous vacations.

He says if he were in my position, he’d work, not come after me for money. That I should have some pride. He also believes our older kids should step up and contribute their money — his older brother did it for their family.

I still have seven of our nine kids home with me. I’d work 40–50 hours outside the home a week if I thought I could make it a good situation for my children.

Ironically, his stated beliefs were part of the appeal back when we were dating.

When he first came from Mexico, he valued family and responsibility on all levels. For me, our kids were at the top of my priority list because of my childhood — I swore I’d always give my children the stability I lacked.

I never wanted my kids to question if they were loved.

Somewhere near the end of our marriage, the rising differences in our values became undeniable and unbearable. When I showed my kids love, he said I was weakening them. If I brought my son a glass of water when he was working outside on a hot, humid day, I wasn’t letting him learn how to be a man. When I told them I loved them, my ex — their father, got angry.

My ex’s vile tone jarred me back to his story about the parents with two children. “The kids in that family were raised the right way — open your eyes and use logic for once. I’ve worked all these years for you, and you’re still trying to live off of me? No, it’s my turn.”

I sat in silence. He seems to have forgotten I helped develop and maintain our business. And I did all the cooking, cleaning, homeschooling, Scouts, sports, chauffering, and all the mom jobs in-between.

I thought it was a team effort.

He worked on the business while I took care of everything else.

“This is why I’ll never be with a white woman again,” he yelled.

“Women from other countries know what real life is. Babying kids is why America is the way it is. You’re only hurting them, raising them the American way. Weak.”

Maybe he’s confused? I’ve raised all our children to have responsibility and to be accountable for their actions.

I no longer recognized him.

Right before I filed for divorce, I remember him watching a neighbor play catch with his son. Snorting a snide laugh, he pointed, “What an idiot. A family man.”

My eyes widened as I shook my head, “You used to be one — how can you possibly say that? He’s giving his child the time he needs and deserves.”

“I’m not going to be some stupid idiot and baby kids. They need to grow up tough. I never had any of that from my father, and look at me; I’m good. I’m strong.”

I had no words.

He didn’t even call our kids on their birthday.

Last Christmas, he was out of the country. He was on a long-term vacation with his lover and left without telling anyone. There were no gifts or money for any of the kids — not even a phone call for them on Christmas Day.

We used to go tenting, RVing, and our vacations always centered around our family. Grills on the weekend. Movie nights on Saturday. I’d make popcorn, and we’d grab sleeping bags to camp out in the living room.

We’d bring the kids to the park or walk around the lake on Sundays. Our free time was spent together — as a family.

Our conversation is going in circles. I set the phone down on my desk. I can’t tolerate his voice; my stomach is somersaulting once again. He’s still yelling, unaware I’m not listening.

I’m tired of the back and forth. The constant criticizing. The last three years building up to our divorce were tough. The disrespect. The affairs. The spending sprees.

I thought once we signed the divorce decree, it would be over.

I wanted to hang up, but I was still grasping for a thread of hope. His belittling session was a prerequisite to receiving any money. When and if he does, it will be a small portion of what he’s supposed to pay. And then I’ll need to show him appreciation that I can buy my kids groceries, clothes, or supplies.

He believes if he gives me anything, it’s from the goodness of his heart — not because of an obligation to our kids or some stupid court order he’s required to pay.

Our kids’ were once in tennis, swimming, and went skiing in the winter. We both deeply wanted to give them opportunities neither of us had growing up. But now he says they don’t need those extras. He believes it’s his turn to enjoy life since he’s the one working.

So when I found out about his latest trip to Cancun with his lover, I was shocked once again. That meant no support for the kids.

When I confronted him, I reminded him we needed money for food, clothes, and supplies. I asked how he could go on another trip knowing this. His response: “There’s grass in the backyard if you run out of food.”

If it were just me, I wouldn’t have tolerated these conversations after our divorce.

But my children are depending on me, financially and emotionally.

I lifted the phone back to my ear.

“I don’t need a noose around my neck. Just because we were married and have kids doesn’t mean I owe you people my life, he spat. “I’m getting older, and when I’m 60, who will care for me? Not your American kids. I need to look out for myself — I’m number one.”

I remember when we were in our twenties. He’d always been a bit vain, and I half-jokingly told him he’d divorce me when I started getting wrinkles. That he’d leave me for a younger woman.

He laughed, “Never — we’re growing old together. Marriage is something I take seriously; we’ll be together until the day we die. Mi media naranja — you’re the other half of my orange.”

Yet here we are.

My once devoted husband is the man he once condemned. Men that didn’t meet support obligations. Didn’t put their family first. Men that left for younger women.

I looked up at the clock. An hour of listening to him blaming the divorce and everything else on me is enough.

I’d answered his call with the hope he’d do the right thing. As I raised my finger to press end call, I heard him say, “It’s your fault I left — you caused all of this.”

Clearly, there will be no money.

These last years consisted of increasing amounts of disrespect and put-downs. It became my normal. But it’s a choice to allow people to mistreat you.

I no longer give him a platform or cater to his need for power and control.

Disentangling from a divorce is a series of hard-learned lessons. Even though my divorce feels like it’s never going to be over, I do have control over my actions. I don’t need to take his phone calls or listen to his blame. The court can decide how to handle his lack of compliance — I no longer will.

I walked out of the office and went into the kitchen. My daughter was sitting at the table coloring, her Harry Potter cape set aside.

I grabbed the mixing bowls from the cupboard. The cookbook we’re working through, Science Chef Travels Around the World, is still open to the page. I call out, “Does anyone want to make cupcakes?”

She looked up with a smile. “Can I frost them too?”

I smiled back and asked her to grab the measuring cups and spoons.

She’s eager to learn everything she can about cooking. I’ll show her how to make a dairy-free version of the recipe, as some of the kiddos prefer it that way.

I’ve homeschooled all of my nine children. Some through high school, while others attended school in the upper grades. I’ve spent my life trying to give my kids what I didn’t have growing up. It’s one of my absolute musts in life.

I hand my daughter the mixer, gently enclosing my hand on top of hers, guiding her as we scrape the sides of the bowl. She giggles as frosting splatters hit the wall.

These are the moments that matter. It’s why I stay strong.

⮕ Going through a divorce or break-up? Here are the five books that helped me find peace and stop the pain.

Julie Gaeta is a Certified Holistic Health Coach accredited by the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. She’s a member of the American Association For Drugless Practitioners and an RYT yoga instructor. She is passionate about sharing the wisdom gained on her ongoing journey of raising a large bi-cultural family with a focus on navigating life as a divorced single mom — all while holding a commitment to health and wellness. In addition to stories like this, she writes about relationships, pursuing growth, enhancing nutrition, food, and healthy living.