Break-up: Nobody can replace me now

When our relationship fell apart at the end of 2022, I sat at my mother's kitchen table and cried. I had moved back in with her, with just a travel bag, a computer and my toothbrush. The table I was sitting at was the same one as before. The rhododendrons outside the window: still, unchanged. Unlike my life, which was falling apart at that point.

It was the worst moment of my life, the evening I left – after years of fruitless attempts to save the relationship. My children, aged three and six, their gaze. My gaze at the door, bag in hand, leaving her behind. It was as if, at that moment, a continental plate had broken away from the mainland and was now drifting inexorably out to sea.

As I sat crying at my mother's kitchen table , I knew that my ex-partner's new boyfriend was building a loft bed for my sons. I'd seen the toolbox in the hallway. Now I pictured them sleeping in it at night and feared being replaced.

50:50 childcare

Because I had been working from home and part-time all those years, the Youth Welfare Office and the counselling centre advised us to adopt what is known as the «alternating care» model – referred to in Switzerland as «alternating custody» – as this was the arrangement that best suited our boys’ lives. Under this model, the parents share the care of the children on a 50:50 weekly basis.

That was more than three years ago now. It feels surreal to write about it.

I'm no longer afraid of being replaced by someone else. I've built my own loft bed. It's in my youngest son's room. Our flat is just half a kilometre away from Mum's flat, with the school in between. Since the split, this is how I've been looking after my children. And it has made a real difference to all our lives.

Is what I'm doing right, and am I asking too much of the children? Can I even do this? And: Do I have the right to do so?

A three-stage transition

Looking back, I would say this period can be divided into three phases: preparing the ground, sowing the seeds, and the result—the harvest.

The transition – the first phase – was the hardest. For the children, but also for me. My self-confidence, which was never particularly strong to begin with, had been further undermined by the separation and the emotions that came with it; I had a lot of doubts during that time. Is what I'm doing right – and am I asking too much of the children? Can I even do this? And ultimately: do I have the right to do this?

Of course, I'm the father, not some second-class parent. But during the many hours of counselling, I met lots of men who had hardly ever been at home before, but who, following the break-up, felt that all that had to change. That they were entitled to it.

But children are not objects that you can simply take possession of afterwards. Shared custody is not a suitable way to repair relationships that were previously only sporadic. Everything should be lived as it was lived before, said the counsellor. Sometimes I didn't know what these fathers wanted with all their vehemence: was it their own longing, concern for the child's welfare, or revenge on their partner that drove them?

I hadn't planned on doing it that way. So we arranged a smooth transition for them. At first, they were with me only during the day and slept at Mum's at night – until they'd settled in. During that time, there was still a bag of clothes that I wanted to get rid of as soon as possible, so that the children wouldn't have to sit on packed suitcases all the time.

Worries and hardships

We arranged for the handover to take place at 6 pm on Sundays. You can also swap the children via the school, but the more experience I gained, the more I felt it was better for them to have the evening before school started to settle in. It gave us some peace of mind: a dinner together, then off to bed. We were flexible with the little one so that he wouldn't feel as though he wouldn't be seeing his mum for a whole week.

This first phase was the hardest, as I often struggled with feelings of guilt. Am I doing the right thing? Is it perhaps wrong to spend this time with them, as it means they're spending less time with their mum? The children were mostly cheerful, as there was so much new to discover.

The good news is that this phase passed quickly. After a few weeks, they no longer wanted to stay overnight at Mum's. And the bag disappeared; I'd bought everything in duplicate – clothes, bed linen, furniture, sports gear – even if my bank balance did take a few sharp hits along the way.

Everyday life begins

The second phase – the sowing phase – was the most labour-intensive. That's when our daily routine really kicked in. The worries, the homework, the struggles. We'd scaled the first peak; now came the long descent. The children no longer saw my flat as a second home; it became their second home. I still went to the advice centre and attended parenting courses to pick up essential tips and get some support.

The main pitfall of shared custody is definitely communication; I know that now.

I often found myself realising now just how much of the mental load and care work my ex-partner had taken off my hands all those years, things I'd never really noticed or appreciated. I had a lot to learn during that time. About running a household, about myself, about life when you have to manage everything on your own with two children. About logistics, doctor's appointments, and clothing sizes.

The main pitfall of shared custody is definitely communication; I know that now. If you don't keep in close contact with one another, the weekly routine can quickly lead to parallel parenting. In other words, two different parenting styles or approaches that often end up competing with one another or causing conflict.

The corset has to be just right

These days, we both bring them up differently. Not in exactly the same way. My ex-wife is an introverted, homebody type; I'm more the opposite. Both children benefit from doing jigsaw puzzles with Mum and (having to) go out more often with Dad. They've settled into a life that's never exactly the same, but above all, never too different.

The rules are the same, the screen time limits are the same. The praise at report-time, the reprimand when necessary. This is where the greatest difficulties lie, and this is where the most work needs to be done to ensure that the framework – for the child – is always just right.

There are downsides too. Other parents often say enviously, «You're so lucky – you always have a week off!» Unfortunately, that's not true. As I'm solely responsible for the children and the entire household during those weeks, there's always a huge amount left undone – and not just when they're ill.

So, during the weeks when the children aren't here, I usually work double shifts, including at the weekend, because I'm self-employed and need to catch up on work somehow. I have far less time for myself than I would in a traditional relationship, where you can simply share so many things. Even if it's just the rent.

A completely different life

That often puts you under enormous pressure, which can really wear you down. I'm also more sensitive these days when male friends try to tell me how exhausting family life is. I look at these men and sometimes think: «You really have no idea.» And I mean: just like me, back then. Because most of what's been taken off your hands all those years, you only realise once your partner's gone, my friend. Life is completely different then.

In my circle of friends, there are now many men living apart from their partners. Most of them follow a shared custody arrangement, so it's not 50:50. Many who think they're splitting things 50:50 don't actually do so. And even if that just means they don't run errands or book doctor's appointments for the child, those tasks still end up falling on the mum. I'm not saying this to be critical. I just think we should all pay a bit more attention to this. You don't have to be a hardcore feminist to simply acknowledge reality.

I'm proud of this decision. I haven't become a weekend dad. Instead, I'm a dad with a tea towel draped over his shoulder.

And then there are things that make me absolutely delighted. And a bit proud, too.

So I was recently in Spain with my father, who is now almost 80, his partner and my children. I was travelling as a single parent, constantly on the go, whilst he was having a leisurely breakfast at around ten o'clock – which, of course, is entirely justified given his life's achievements.

«You're doing an absolutely brilliant job»

At one point, my dad said I wasn't getting any rest at all and wasn't enjoying the holidays in the slightest. And I replied, «It's fine, the children are having a great time.» In the evenings, I was too tired for a glass of wine and fell asleep with the children. But it was a lovely holiday all the same.

Just before we left, my father said to me as we stood on the beach, his hands on his hips – my father, who had separated from my mother and had never been able to live that way, because in his day a man wasn't allowed to: «I can't believe how well you're doing. All on your own. So resilient and thoughtful!» I was so proud, because I knew he had given me so much to help me get this far.

Yes, I'm proud of that decision. A little bit more every day. I haven't become a weekend dad. Instead, I'm a dad with a tea towel draped over his shoulder. Today, no one can take my place – not Mum, not Grandma. I've worked hard for that. That's the reward.

The loft bed in the children's bedroom that I built three years ago is no longer there. It has been taken out of service. In its place, there is now a long, large bed for a teenager.

I don't think anything in life has ever made me as happy as this.