“Where’s Daddy?” The Specific Hell of Divorcing with Littles
The Question That Breaks You Every Night
“Where’s Daddy?”
Two words. Every night. Same time. Same broken voice. Same confusion in eyes that shouldn’t know confusion yet.
She’s three. Three years old, standing in dinosaur pajamas you bought together at Target when you were still a family, holding the stuffed elephant he gave her for her second birthday, asking where Daddy is with the complete certainty that there must be a simple answer. Because in her world, Daddies don’t just not come home. Daddies live here. That’s what Daddies do.
“Daddy’s at his house tonight, sweetheart. You’ll see him on Friday.”
“But why?”
How do you explain irreconcilable differences to someone who just learned to use the potty? How do you describe growing apart to a human who thinks growing means getting bigger? How do you justify destroying her only known universe because two adults couldn’t figure out how to love each other anymore?
You don’t. You can’t. You just hold her while she cries for Daddy, knowing you’re the one who made Daddy go away. Not legally—the papers say “mutual” and “no fault” and other lies that adults tell—but really. You’re the one holding the sobbing child. You’re the one explaining the unexplainable.
The baby doesn’t ask. Eighteen months old, he just looks around expectantly at dinner time, waiting for the other chair to fill. When it doesn’t, he points at it. “Dada?” You say, “Not tonight, buddy” and he accepts it because what else can he do? But next dinner, he points again. “Dada?” He’s learning that sometimes people aren’t there. He’s eighteen months old and learning that love doesn’t mean staying.
The Parking Lot Exchanges
Every Tuesday and Friday at 5:30 PM in the grocery store parking lot. Neutral territory, the lawyer called it. As if anywhere could be neutral when you’re transferring children like packages.
The three-year-old clings. Always clings. Sometimes to you—”I don’t want to go!”—and your heart breaks. Sometimes to him—”I want to stay with Daddy!”—and your heart breaks differently. The baby just looks confused, being unbuckled from one car seat and buckled into another, his diaper bag moving between hands that used to touch each other, now careful to maintain distance even in transfer.
Windows down so you can hear if someone’s crying in the other car. Quick efficiency to minimize transition trauma. No eye contact because eye contact leads to fighting and fighting makes the three-year-old scream. The eighteen-month-old watches from his car seat, learning that sometimes Mommy and Daddy exist in the same space but never together, like magnets pushing apart.
Other shoppers walk by with their intact families, loading groceries while you transfer children like carefully wrapped grief. The choreography of avoiding touch, maintaining distance, pretending this is normal – all while tiny hearts learn that sometimes love means separation. You want to explain to these strangers that this isn’t normal, will never be normal, that you’re performing stability while teaching babies that families can break.
Reflection Check-In #1
What part of co-parenting tiny children is breaking you today?
⬜ A) The constant questions I can’t answer honestly
They deserve truth, but age-appropriate truth. “Mommy and Daddy love you but can’t live together” is all they need
⬜ B) The car seat shuffle and parking lot handoffs
The logistics feel dehumanizing because they are. Consider doorstep exchanges if parking lots are too hard
⬜ C) Missing bedtime every other night
Record yourself reading stories for the other parent to play. Your voice can be there even when you can’t
⬜ D) The guilt when they cry at transitions
Their tears are processing, not accusation. They’re allowed to grieve too
⬜ E) Seeing my ex parent differently than I would
You’re not co-parenting anymore, you’re parallel parenting. Different isn’t necessarily wrong
⬜ F) Everything about this forced separation from my babies
Whatever specific agony you’re facing with tiny hearts deserves recognition
Explaining the Unexplainable
“Why don’t you and Daddy love each other anymore?”
She’s three. She thinks love is forever because you told her it was. Every bedtime story ends with forever. Every Disney movie promises always. Now you’re explaining that sometimes love dies, but don’t worry, the love for you never will. She doesn’t understand the distinction. Love is love in her world. If Mommy-Daddy love can die, why not Mommy-her love?
You try different explanations:
- “Sometimes grown-ups grow different” (But I’m growing too! Will you stop loving me?)
- “Daddy and I are better as friends” (She knows friends. Friends have playdates. This isn’t that.)
- “We both love you so much but can’t live together” (Then why can I live with both of you?)
The baby points at pictures. The three of us at Christmas, the four of us at the beach, the family that was. “Dada!” he says, proud of identifying faces. You want to hide the pictures but the therapist says that’s confusing. So they stay, these artifacts of the family that died, while you pretend it’s healthy for babies to see evidence of what they lost.
The three-year-old makes up stories. “When Daddy comes home.” “When you and Daddy are friends again.” “When we all live together.” You correct her gently, every correction a tiny knife: “Daddy lives at his house now.” She stops telling you the stories, but you hear her telling them to her dolls. The daddy doll always comes home.
Missing Half Their Childhood
Fifty percent. That’s what joint custody means. Fifty percent of their childhood happens without you.
The baby took his first real steps at his dad’s. You got a video. Watching your child’s milestone through a screen, pretending the video is enough, pretending you’re not dying inside because you missed it. His first word was “kitty” (the cat at Dad’s apartment). You weren’t there for that either.
The three-year-old learned to write her name at preschool on a Wednesday. Not your Wednesday. You found out at pickup on Friday when she proudly showed you, three days late to the celebration.
This is the math that kills you:
- 50% of bedtimes missed
- 50% of morning snuggles gone
- 50% of boo-boos kissed by someone else
- 50% of nightmares soothed in another home
- 50% of their childhood witnessed by someone else
You become a curator of secondhand memories. “Tell me about your week” to a three-year-old who can barely remember breakfast. Photo exchanges with your ex so you can see what you missed. The baby changing so fast that every transition reveals a slightly different child—new sounds, new skills, new connections you weren’t there to witness forming.
Reflection Check-In #2
What milestone are you grieving today?
⬜ A) First words, steps, or other baby milestones caught on video instead of witnessed
Videos aren’t the same, but they’re something. The milestone still happened
⬜ B) The everyday magic—jokes, observations, discoveries I’m missing
These happen every day. You’re missing some but not all
⬜ C) Comforting them when they needed me but I wasn’t there
They’re learning other people can comfort them too
⬜ D) School events that fall on the wrong days
Trade when you can, accept when you can’t
⬜ E) Watching them grow comfortable in a home that isn’t mine
They need to feel safe in both homes, even if it hurts
⬜ F) All of it—the half-life of part-time parenting
Every missed moment matters. Your grief is valid
The Guilt That Eats You Alive
You did this to them. No matter who filed, who cheated, who gave up first—you both did this to them.
They didn’t ask to be born into a marriage that would fail. The three-year-old didn’t choose parents who would grow to hate each other. The baby didn’t sign up for split custody. You created humans and then broke their world before they knew it could break.
The guilt sits in your chest like stones. When she asks why Daddy doesn’t live here. During parking lot exchanges. Replaying their confused faces at 3 AM. Your body carries the weight of destroying innocence.
People say: “Kids are resilient.” “Better divorced than unhappy.” These people either don’t have children or are lying to manage their own guilt. Your three-year-old will remember something. Her body will hold this disruption even if her mind forgets the details. The baby’s entire understanding of family will be built on separation.
But staying would have been worse. They would have learned that love looks like contempt. That marriage means cold silence. That families are built on suppressed rage. You traded one damage for another, hoping the math works out, knowing you’ll never really know.
When They’re Too Young to Understand But Old Enough to Remember
The three-year-old will remember something. Fragments. Feelings. The shape of sadness without the details.
She’ll remember Daddy leaving but not why. Remember Mommy crying but not the context. Remember two homes but not the single home before. Her memories will start at destruction.
The baby won’t remember you together at all. His entire conscious life will be split custody. “Normal” will be two homes, two beds, two sets of rules. He’ll never know what he lost, which is its own tragedy.
Their little bodies hold what their minds can’t process. The three-year-old’s sudden clinging. The baby’s distress at transitions. You’re watching confusion settle into their bones, powerless to prevent what you caused.
Years from now, they’ll ask why. The real why, not the sanitized version. You’ll have to explain that love died, that trying wasn’t enough, that two people who created them couldn’t stand to be in the same room. How do you tell your children that their existence wasn’t enough to save the marriage?
You don’t. You carry the truth alone: that you could have stayed miserable for them but chose not to.
The New Partners and Tiny Confused Hearts
He has a girlfriend. Four months post-separation and there’s a woman your babies call “Daddy’s friend Sarah.”
The three-year-old tells you Sarah makes pancakes. Sarah has a dog. Sarah slept in Daddy’s bed. Your daughter doesn’t understand why this information makes Mommy cry in the car after drop-off.
You want to be mature. But maturity is impossible when your three-year-old asks if Sarah is her “new mommy.” The baby reaches for her when she’s there. Your son, your baby, reaching for another woman because she’s there when you’re not.
The three-year-old draws pictures: stick figures labeled “Me Daddy Sarah.” Where’s Mommy? “At Mommy’s house.” Already understanding the separation, already normalizing replacement.
You’re not allowed to be upset. You left (or he left, or you left each other). But watching another woman mother your babies during your missing 50% is specific torture no one prepares you for.
Reflection Check-In #3
How are you surviving what you can’t control?
⬜ A) Their different rules at his house make me crazy
You control your home only
⬜ B) The new partner being around my babies too soon
Document if it violates agreements, accept if it doesn’t
⬜ C) Missing everything that happens on his time
Ask for videos, pictures, stories
⬜ D) The baby bonding with his girlfriend
Additional love doesn’t diminish yours, but yes, this hurts like hell
⬜ E) All of it—the complete loss of control
Control what you can: your home, your time, your response
The Permission to Divorce Despite Them
You’re allowed to leave even though you have young children. This is the permission no one gives.
Society says stay for the kids. Your mother says they need an intact home. But staying in misery teaches them that love is obligation, that families are built on resentment.
You’re allowed to choose your own survival even when it costs them an intact home. This doesn’t make you noble. It makes you human—flawed, selfish, surviving.
Your children will pay for your choice. They’ll carry this. The three-year-old who asks every night where Daddy is. The baby who points at his empty chair. These images will haunt you forever, as they should.
But you’re still allowed to leave. Still allowed to believe that two happy homes are better than one miserable one. The guilt is your penance. The missed milestones are your consequence. Their confusion is your responsibility.
Even when it means breaking their little hearts before they knew hearts could break.
Frequently Asked Questions
How do I explain divorce to a toddler?
Keep it simple: “Mommy and Daddy will live in different houses, but we both love you.” Don’t over-explain. Answer only what they ask. Repeat the same explanation consistently—toddler brains need repetition. Expect them to ask hundreds of times; that’s how they process. Use books about divorce for young kids. Reinforce constantly it’s not their fault. Their confusion won’t resolve quickly. Some concepts are beyond their development—accept that they won’t fully understand.
Will my baby/toddler remember this?
They won’t remember specific events, but their bodies will hold the disruption. They’ll remember feelings more than facts. The impact shows as behavior changes, sleep disruption, increased clinginess. What their bodies remember shapes them even if their minds don’t recall details. Consistent love from both parents, even separately, helps. The memories will be fragments, impressions, the feeling of change they couldn’t understand.
How do I handle custody exchanges when my toddler melts down?
Keep exchanges brief and matter of fact. Long goodbyes make it worse. Same time, same place, same quick routine. A special toy that travels between homes helps. Don’t sneak away—that creates more anxiety. Acknowledge their feelings: “You’re sad to leave Mommy. Daddy missed you.” If meltdowns are severe, consider if the schedule is too disruptive—young children sometimes need longer stretches at each home.
Should I stay until the kids are older?
There’s no perfect answer. Kids absorb tension whether parents are together or apart. Consider: Can you model respect while married but miserable? Would staying require complete self-sacrifice leading to resentment? Sometimes staying briefly while planning helps. Sometimes it’s impossible. Children need at least one functional parent more than two miserable ones together.
How do I stop feeling guilty?
The guilt may never fully disappear—you’ve disrupted your children’s lives. Focus on what you control: being present in your time, maintaining stability in your home. Your guilt won’t undo the divorce or help your children. Many children of divorce grow up capable of good relationships. Your divorce doesn’t doom them, though it challenges them. Forgive yourself for being imperfect—they’ll need to see you model self-forgiveness too.
End Note
Every night, in two different homes, small voices ask for the parent who isn’t there. “Where’s Daddy?” “I want Mommy.” These questions are arrows through your heart, evidence of the wounds you created.
Your three-year-old will adapt, creating new normal where parents exist separately. Your baby will grow never knowing different. They’ll develop resilience they shouldn’t need, coping skills for reality you didn’t want to give them.
You did this. The guilt is earned. The consequences are real. Their little hearts are broken in ways that may echo through their lives.
But you’re still here, still loving them through the wreckage. That has to count for something. Even if it’s not enough. Even if it never will be.
