About the fears and freedoms of a single mum

I am divorced. I am a divorced, 46-year-old mother of two teenagers, 13 and 16 years old. «Divorced» sounds terribly old, I think. «Divorced» sounds tired, weary, dishevelled. But I'm neither tired nor weary. I don't want to talk about the hairstyle.

Single parents have much more to offer than trauma and tears. No two single parents are the same. Everyone has a story that was difficult before it got better.

As a single parent, I can organise myself as it suits me. I can rely on myself. But I'm also to blame for everything.

My children see their father regularly. I have little contact with him myself. After a few stressful years, the break came, which meant that I was left to my own devices in everyday life.

The toolbox was ready

Being alone on a day-to-day basis gives me a lot of freedom. I can fully engage with my children, go at their pace and give them my full attention. I think our relationship benefits. I can make quick decisions in my everyday life - «Yes, stay until one o'clock in the morning» or «No, you don't have to come».

I can rearrange the living room as often as I want. And I'm the master of the remote control. I enjoy putting away the dishwasher as much as I can, and when the children go out, I have a storm-free day. Some mums really envy me for that.

As a single parent, I can organise myself however I want. I can rely on myself. But I'm also responsible for everything and it's all my fault.

Being alone in everyday life means that I have to take care of winter tyres, lawnmowers and assembling Ikea furniture. I realised this from the very beginning: I had put together a toolbox, which I now open with pride and browse through with a frown. I can plug and drill, sand and saw.

What I wasn't prepared for: that I would no longer be invited with my children.

I had also guessed in advance that the neighbours would discuss why we had split up - and whisper to me with a wink that they had seen a man coming out of my flat last night.

Questions between onions and cucumbers

What I wasn't prepared for, however, was that I would no longer be invited out with my children. That we would no longer be asked for dinners and outings. That my girlfriends would only have time for me when their husbands didn't have time for them. That they can't make an appointment for dinner, a nightcap or even an espresso at the weekend because «that's family time». Which means nothing other than that they arrange to meet up with intact families.

I wasn't prepared for this, nor for the fact that I would be asked in the neighbourhood shop, between onions and cucumbers, whether we had separated «on good terms» so that things would «work out reasonably well» for our children.

I have to get used to the fact that people don't ask me if they can help me carry the wood up or mount the roof rack, but just wave cheerfully as I pass by while I pull my back muscles.

I was also not prepared for how incredibly unpleasant it is for me to ask for help. So I don't have to do that, I do most of it myself. Or I learn how to do it. At worst, I pay someone to do it for me.

No one else there

I feel a little less like a single parent when I get advice from my parents, my brother and my girlfriend. But they're still not there to help me deal with the big little dramas. When teenager 1 has left the house in tears and teenager 2 has left without a word and without a school bag. They're not there when the door slams, I'm standing in the silence, exhausted, and my working day hasn't even started yet.

They're not there when my friends are having «family time», they're barbecuing in the gardens all round, laughing and I'm drinking my beer alone in the garden. «Where haven't you failed?» I then ask myself. When the daughter screams «I hate everything!», the son gets too much, he barricades himself in his room and I sit on the sofa spiralling into self-reproach, they're not there to say: «It's not you.»

The door slamming, hatred, sulking and silence of teenagers is usually not directed at me. It's easier to put up with this when I'm doing well.

They are not there when I wake up at three o'clock in the morning with a racing heart and ask myself: «What am I afraid of ?» to pull a long list of possible reasons out of the darkness. So sometimes I ask my children directly what they would like to be different. Their wish: «Worry less about us.»

The door slamming, hatred, sulking and silence are usually not directed at me. It's easier to accept and endure this when I'm doing well.

Own sparring partner

So I become my own sparring partner. «Helen,» I tell myself emphatically, «you haven't slept enough, that's why you're tired. Now run yourself a bath, relax and be a role model for self-care.» Does that work? Sometimes it does. And the other times I tell myself to shut the fuck up with this mindfulness crap.

Sometimes I text my sleepless sister-in-law at three o'clock in the morning, «Awake too?» and we get a yoghurt from the fridge together and exchange Instagram posts full of dark humour.

I'm good on my own - and a new man only comes into our lives if he makes it even more beautiful.

But it's not just in these moments that someone is missing. Even when eye contact between parents says: «How incredibly wonderful they are, our children.» And: «He was only five.» They are not there to unpack the moments again later, with «Do you remember when they were ...».

So I recount these moments in my diary. In the middle of the night. Instead of watching Karl prepare a red cabbage salad on Instagram, I read my list of heartfelt moments.

Fall as an opportunity

By the way, the man who came out of my flat, seen by my neighbour, was my brother. I'm not currently looking for a new partner. I'm fine on my own - and a new man only comes into our lives if he makes it even better.

Today, I prefer to invest this energy in my friends. I can relax with them, let them take the lead and toast to life. It's soothing to hear that my girlfriend sheds a tear after an argument with the children or that my friend, also a journalist, constantly cuts his text instead of continuing to write it.

When it's not three o'clock in the morning or I'm tired and marinating in self-reproach, I actually see being alone as a great opportunity. The divorce interrupted a system, a destructive routine. Like after a heavy fall, I first had to sit down, regain my bearings and then decide what to do next.

But it's also like this: I was allowed to get out of this system, I was allowed to break out of this routine and I'm allowed to decide how things will continue for me - from the many little things that make up happiness (like pink bed linen) to the big questions that give life direction, like: What do I want to experience before I'm old?

Being alone gives me freedom. I am grateful for that.