The Photograph

I stayed until the end of an eight-year-old's birthday party last weekend. Usually I drop and go, but I could see the dad had brought his girlfriend, and I didn't want to leave the mum standing there alone.

Eventually they brought out the cake. Her mum stood on one side, her dad on the other. Everyone sang. Phones came out. People smiled.

I found myself watching the parents more than the birthday girl. I recognised the feeling. I've stood in that exact place before.

For a few hours, two people who no longer share a life come back together to celebrate the person they both love most. From the outside it probably looks simple. From the inside, it can be one of the more demanding afternoons of the year — who arrives first, who organises the cake, will they bring their new partner, how you make conversation after so much has happened between you.

I noticed it in her too. She was always moving. Refilling drinks. Finding the candles. Straightening a table that didn't need straightening. Maybe she was simply hosting well. Maybe she needed something to do with her hands. Either way, she rarely stood still.

Then the candles are lit, everyone gathers in, and someone says, "let's get a photo."

Then the guests leave. The balloons slowly deflate.

And you drive home carrying something you can't quite name.

It's become easier for me over the years. But watching those parents last weekend reminded me how invisible that part of divorce is.

The quiet exhale when they finally get back to the car.