Parenting Beyond Divorce
At home in two houses, together in one garden

 

 

 

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Introduction

Divorce is never simple. It does not only mean letting go of a partner, but also of a vision of the future carefully built over the years. In my case, not only did a dream fall apart, but I also had to find a new way to remain parents together for our children. Together with my ex-wife, I chose a form of co-parenting that has scarcely been described before: Living Together Apart (LTA). It meant moving into a small wooden bungalow at the back of the garden —formely known as my studio — forty meters from my ex-wife’s front door. A separate household, separate lives, yet with a shared responsibility and proximity that turned out to be invaluable for the children.

 

This construction was not born out of convenience or harmony, but out of necessity, respect and love. Necessity, because the housing market and my financial situation made an independent home nearly impossible. Respect, because my ex-wife and I refused to become enemies despite everything. And love, because we both felt that the children had a right to stability and closeness — to both their mothers.

 

 

 

The beginning of a different form

My divorce came from a multitude of causes, but for my ex-wife it felt as if my falling in love with someone else had been the decisive factor. Looking back, I can only respect the way in which she, despite the pain, dealt with the situation. For both of us it was an emotionally charged time. I, too, lost a dream: the idea of a shared home, a stable future, a family as we had once envisioned it.

 

Yet something remained. My ex-wife had been more to me than a partner — she had been my safe haven since my youth. Where I found no safety at home, she offered it. She was the one who, in a period of deep despair, literally pulled me back from the edge of the abyss. That bond, that love beyond romance, I could not and did not want to lose. But it did mean that we had to find a new language together: one of friendship, of shared parenthood, of connection in a different form.

 

The first step in that process was both practical and symbolic — my move into the studio at the back of the garden. A bungalow of fifty square meters, once intended as a creative workspace, became my home. It was small, uncomfortable and far from ideal, but it offered something no other solution could provide at the time: proximity to my children and a sense of continuity in their daily lives. And over time, I managed to turn that little house into a warm, pleasant and safe home.

 

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Restoring what remained

When the first storm of emotions slowly subsided, space opened up to look at what could still be preserved. My ex-wife and I decided to go into relationship therapy together. Not to revive our romantic relationship — though I know she initially held on to that hope — but to save what still mattered: our friendship, our respect for one another,and above all, our shared responsibility for the children.

 

It became a search for a new language. We had to learn to no longer see each other as partners, but as allies. That meant setting boundaries, letting go of old patterns and at the same time acknowledging that a deep bond between us would always remain. We share a history of nearly thirty years and she was the woman who, in my darkest period, had prevented me from making a fatal decision. Such bonds do not disappear — they merely change shape.

 

For me, this was the hardest part: acknowledging that the love remained, but could no longer take the form of a marriage. It meant loss, grief and a redefinition of closeness. Yet I felt it was possible. That we could, with setbacks and small steps, return to something more like friendship. And that precisely this would form the foundation for stable parenthood.

 

 

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The children as compass

What is often a complicated and painful process for adults, children experience in their own direct way. They sense with striking clarity where tension lies, but also where stability and safety can be found. In our situation, the children became, unintentionally but unmistakably, our compass.

 

At first, we tried to stick to fixed patterns, as many parents do after a divorce. But soon the children themselves voiced what they preferred: alternating nights with us. One night my daughter would sleep with me in the little house at the back of the garden while my son stayed with their mother in the main house — the next night we would switch. In this way, there was always one parent with one child and we all remained in close daily proximity.

 

It turned out to be a surprisingly simple solution to something we, as adults, might easily have overcomplicated. This arrangement brought peace. A rhythm emerged in which the children never felt they were missing a parent, nor did they have to constantly shuttle back and forth with suitcases and belongings. Their home remained one place and within that place there was space to share intimate, everyday moments both with their mother in the main house and with me in the small house.

 

Of course, this sometimes required flexibility and we offered that too. If I had an evening appointment, both children stayed with my ex-wife. If she was away, they slept with me. But the foundation remained: alternating togetherness, without anyone being completely excluded.

 

That choice, made by children’s hands and children’s words, may in hindsight have been the greatest wisdom in our entire LTA arrangement. They showed us the way to a form that tore less, that allowed room for closeness, and that let them feel they did not have to choose between their parents.

 

 

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The daily rhythm

Over time, a sense of naturalness grew in our daily life. The little courtyard became the stage for a remarkable rhythm: two houses, two front doors, but one shared sense of home for the children.

 

In the mornings, I would bring one of the children to my ex-wife for breakfast, before heading straight to work. We saw each other briefly, often no more than a greeting and that very businesslike tone worked well: it prevented endless conversations or the repetition of old arguments. The mornings became ritual, almost neutral — and therein lay their strength.

 

Evenings allowed for more closeness. We often had dinner together with the children, cleared the table as a team and then went our separate ways: my ex with one child in the main house, me with the other in the small house at the back of the garden. In this way, a sense of togetherness remained, without pretending that the divorce had not happened.

 

We also continued to do things as a family. Outings with the children, celebrating birthdays, holidays. Not because we wanted to cling to what was gone, but because we felt the children had the right to shared memories. Yet there were clear boundaries. We always slept separately. Family gatherings we no longer attended as a couple. And physical intimacy was no longer there — except for a friendly hug or a consoling arm.

 

It was precisely this combination of closeness and boundaries that kept the balance. For the children, it felt safe: their parents were present, without the tensions that often come with a hostile divorce. For us, it meant that despite everything lost, we discovered a new form of connectedness — one less about us and more about them. A form that offered peace, stability and harmony.

 

 

 

 

Sacrifices and boundaries

Although outsiders sometimes thought we had found the ideal solution, the reality was far less rosy. Living Together Apart demands sacrifices — both large and small — and forces choices that are often uncomfortable.

 

For me, it first of all meant giving up a great deal of comfort and privacy. The little house at the back of the garden offered safety and closeness, but it was small, noisy and far from luxurious. Where I had once been accustomed to space, I had to learn to live with simplicity. Yet I kept feeling that this sacrifice was proportionate to what it gave in return: stability for the children and a home that was not torn in two.

 

The financial side was also a challenge. Having worked part-time for years to be there for the children, I had not built up enough resources to live independently straight away. The housing market made finding an affordable place nearly impossible. The little house was therefore not only a temporary solution, but in a sense also the only realistic one. Buying my own home, especially in the same village, seemed an almost unattainable dream.

 

There were also boundaries that were clearly set. One of the agreements I had to accept was that my ex decided who had access to the property. For her, it was essential to retain that piece of autonomy, and although it was sometimes difficult for me, I understood that it was a condition for our arrangement to work. It was a reminder that LTA is not about what feels ideal for the parents, but about what remains practically livable for everyone involved.

 

These sacrifices made it clear that Living Together Apart is not a comfortable middle ground, but rather a compromise. A solution that only holds when both parents are willing to rein in their personal desires and consistently put the children’s needs first.

 

 

 

Love beyond form

What touched me most throughout this entire process was that love had not vanished with the end of our relationship. It had only changed shape. What was once romantic love slowly became another kind of love: one of respect, friendship and shared care. It was not a given, but a choice. A choice not to remain stuck in resentment, but to search for what still bound us.

 

That love was no longer centered on the two of us, but on the larger whole in which we stood together: raising our children. They were, and still are, the quiet core around which everything revolves. The realization that parenthood is a bond that no divorce can undo forced us to reinvent the language of connection. Not a language of intimacy or partnership, but of cooperation, of closeness without fusion and of care that transcends personal pain.

 

In that sense, our situation became an exercise in another kind of love: a love that does not cling to form, but continues to exist in the space between. It is a love that refuses to be dissolved, precisely because a greater responsibility is at stake. A love no longer driven by desire, but by responsibility.

 

I now see this as a broader truth: divorce does not necessarily have to mark the end of connectedness. It can be a transformation, a movement toward another way of loving — in which the relationship does not disappear but reinvents itself. And in that reinvention, a form may emerge that is perhaps less romantic, but all the more marked by maturity, loyalty and care.

 

 

 

The psychological perspective

From a psychological point of view, it is clear that divorce is one of the most impactful events in a child’s life. The sense of safety and predictability — essential conditions for healthy development — comes under pressure. Children are often shuttled back and forth between two homes and thus between two worlds. This can lead to loyalty conflicts, feelings of displacement and sometimes even lasting insecurity in relationships.

 

That is precisely why a construction such as Living Together Apart can have a softening effect. The physical closeness of both parents means that the children do not have to divide their daily lives across two entirely different places. Their home essentially remains one home, in which both parents are present and involved. This reduces the chance that they become trapped between conflicting loyalties or have to continually switch between worlds that stand in sharp contrast.

 

Research on attachment shows that stability, predictability and the emotional availability of parents are crucial factors for children’s well-being. LTA offers, if carried out well, a way to safeguard that foundation — even after the partnership has ended. It requires sacrifices and clear boundaries from the parents, but it can make the difference for children between a divorce that leaves a permanent wound and one that, although painful, still provides enough grounding for growth and trust.

 

 

 

Conclusion — Another way

There is no such thing as a painless divorce. For children it always means loss: loss of certainty, loss of the illusion that their family is unchangeable. Yet my experience shows that there are ways to carry this loss without letting it completely undermine the foundation of their lives.

 

Living Together Apart is no miracle cure. It requires sacrifices, discipline and a willingness to set aside one’s own ego. It is a compromise that only works when both parents are able to subordinate their personal pain and desires to the needs of their children. But precisely in that lies its strength: it shows that love, beyond romance and beyond form, can still be sustaining.

 

Psychologically, this arrangement offers children stability, closeness and a sense of continuity. Philosophically, it shows that love can transform — that it does not have to disappear when its form changes. And personally, it has taught me that connectedness can be stronger than separation, provided we are willing to search for a new language.

 

What remains is the awareness that parenthood is a covenant that does not end with a signature at the notary. It is a lifelong responsibility, a shared care that transcends the broken form of marriage. Living Together Apart is not for everyone — but where it is possible, it may well be the least harmful way for children to grow up with two parents who, each in their own way, continue to say: you are at the center.