The Day I Became a Single Mom (Whether I Wanted the Title or Not)

Am I a single mom, or am I co-parenting?

A friend recently told me there’s a quiet debate around women who call themselves single mothers when an ex-husband is still technically in the picture — someone the children know, someone who shows up… occasionally… like a seasonal pop-up shop you forget exists until it randomly reappears.

She warned me to be careful with that label. Apparently, it can make people uncomfortable.

But it’s hard not to call yourself a single mom when, in practice, you’re doing it all.

For years, the father of my children seemed to specialize in offloading his stress onto me — like I was some kind of emotional Dropbox with no unsubscribe button. I remember one stretch when we didn’t have electricity for five days. He did. So I sent the kids to stay with him and explained the situation.

On the second day, he called to ask when I was coming to pick them up.

I was always his Plan B.

Actually, more like Plan D — after “ignore,” “deflect,” and “blame.”

There was a time when he took them every second weekend. But even that depended on who he was dating. If it didn’t fit his life, it didn’t happen. Still, I resisted the label. I told myself we were co-parenting. After all, he showed up occasionally — a sports tournament here, a school pickup there. I could work a full day knowing my son would be taken care of after school.

It wasn’t a system. It was a suggestion.

I stopped calling it co-parenting the day he called to tell me he was moving two hours away.

He said he had thought it through — talked to his family, his friends, even the kids. 

The call came in the middle of my workday. I stepped out between meetings to call him back, expecting a conversation. What I got instead was a full presentation about how his new girlfriend was offering him a place to live for a few hundred dollars a month — clearly the highlight — and how he planned to buy himself a brand new car.

He never once mentioned the children.

I hung up without saying a word and had to walk straight back into a meeting, pretending my life hadn’t just shifted. My focus was gone. A friend texted to check in — I told him I couldn’t talk.

He called anyway.

And I broke.

It felt like being a child again — the day my own father left. Except this time, I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. I had meetings to run. Dinners to make. Children to protect from a story that was already starting to unravel.

A few days later, I wrote him a letter. For the first time since the divorce, I didn’t soften my words. I didn’t try to keep the peace. I let the anger speak — fully, unapologetically.

When I told the boys he was moving, they repeated the version he had given them — a sweet story about new bedrooms and easier visits, about how everything would be fine.

I just nodded.

Because sometimes motherhood is knowing when to say nothing and let reality handle the lesson.

It didn’t take long.

And when it hit, I saw it — the shift. The disappointment. The light dimming in their eyes.

Watching them process it, I made a decision: my energy would no longer go toward him.

It would go to them.

I let him go — mentally, emotionally, logistically. (Highly recommend. Would give it five stars if it didn’t take so long to get there.)

I focused on their stability, their routines, their sense of safety. Every decision became about making sure they were okay. He moved in June. He didn’t see them again until August. So, they became the VIP guests to all my weekend adventures. 

At some point, not in front of the children, I started referring to him as “the deceased.” Not out of cruelty, but because it was easier than expecting something that wasn’t coming.

Emotionally, it fit.

So when people suggest I shouldn’t call myself a single mom, I just look at my life.

I wake up every morning and I am the one making lunches, cooking dinners, managing schedules, remembering forms, signing things, checking in, showing up — every single time. All while working full time, managing home and car repairs as well as the inevitable curve balls that the universe throws at us from time to time. 

And yes, pre menopause…with its hormonal shifts, sleepless nights, periods that look like a murder scene.

No backup. No tag team. No “your turn.”

Just me. And coffee.

I used to justify to myself that the reason why I had stayed in this marriage for so long was because he was such a great dad— my children were so lucky to have such an involved, dedicated father. 

Watching that belief unravel, watching him step away so completely…

That one hit differently.

That one still does.

But here’s the part I hold onto:

We’re okay.

Not perfect. Not untouched. But steady. Safe. Together.

And honestly? That’s more than enough.