My daughter, Emily, had always been a quiet, thoughtful girl. She was the kind of child who remembered birthdays without being reminded, who cried when she saw an injured animal, and who once spent an entire Saturday making friendship bracelets for girls who barely spoke to her.
When her father, Mark, and I separated, she was eight.
We tried to make the transition as painless as possible. We never asked her to choose between us, and we agreed that whatever had happened to our marriage, we would continue raising our daughter together.
That sounded simple during the meetings with lawyers.
In reality, it was much harder.
Mark was a good man in many ways. He remembered Emily’s favorite ice cream flavor, knew exactly which cartoons made her laugh when she was little, and could turn an ordinary trip to the grocery store into an adventure.
Unfortunately, he was also the kind of man who could remember to buy a birthday cake but forget to bring it to the birthday party.
