Should We Stay Together for the Kids?

“Should we stay together for the kids?” This isn’t a simple question; it’s often a heartfelt cry, a silent scream echoing in countless homes, etched on the faces of couples teetering on the edge of separation. It’s a question I’ve wrestled with myself, a question that dragged me through the agonizing terrain of divorce and, improbably, back to the same woman I committed to spend my life with. My journey has taught me that while not always an easy path, choosing to remain in a marriage, even a brutally difficult one, can lead to unexpected blessings and profound personal growth, especially when children are involved. The choice isn’t rooted in fleeting romantic love, but in something far deeper, something that resonates with the very core of our being: profound meaning.

Biblical wisdom, far from being a collection of historic events and ritual law, offers profound insights into the complexities of human relationships and the human psyche, providing intriguing examples that illuminate this very issue. In Shemot/Exodus 22:16-17, we find a law that, at first glance, seems jarring to modern sensibilities. It addresses the situation of a man who has seduced a young virgin. The text states, “If a man seduces a young virgin… and she shall become his wife.” Crucially, while the woman has the right to reject him, if she chooses to marry him, he must do so, being bound to her for life with no escape. This isn’t the romantic ideal; it’s a stark legal and social obligation. It highlights the Bible’s pragmatic recognition that marriage, in certain circumstances, is deemed necessary even when mutual love or affection is non-existent and perhaps will never be. The man might not love the woman; he might even harbor resentment, yet he is still forced to remain with his wife for life. This serves as a powerful, potentially uncomfortable, lesson: the Bible sometimes demands that individuals remain in difficult marriages, even when those marriages perpetuate difficult, even traumatic, experiences. It underscores the idea that marriage can be a commitment that transcends personal feelings.

My own story, like so many others, is etched with the jagged lines of painful years and, against all odds, unexpected redemption. My first marriage stretched on for twelve years – twelve years marked by bitterness that seeped into the very marrow of my bones, an unhappiness that clung to me like a shroud. The trauma of feeling trapped, of being locked in a horribly painful situation, still casts its long shadow. I remained far beyond my breaking point, driven by a desperate concern for our shared children, their innocent faces caught in the crossfire of my deep discontent. Only when I felt I couldn’t take it anymore, when the pain became unbearable, did I finally bolt. But life, as it so often does, had other, more perplexing, plans. We remarried. Yes, the same woman. The whispers followed us like a persistent echo: Are they insane? Should they have divorced in the first place? And, if so, why on earth were they getting back together? These questions haunted me, their presence a constant reminder of the complex tapestry of my choices.

The truth, stark and unavoidable, was this: I knew the challenges would still be there, lurking like dormant landmines, the scars of the past still tender, throbbing with a phantom pain. It wasn’t a decision made out of desperation. I was actively dating, even close to marrying someone else. But I also knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that accepting the pain, acknowledging its presence, and learning to live alongside it was simply the right thing to do. It was a commitment, not born of the fleeting euphoria of romantic love, but of something far more profound: a deep, almost primal sense of responsibility, a belief in the resilience of the human spirit, and a stubborn faith in the potential for healing, even in the most fractured of relationships. I imagined a future stretching before me, a landscape shrouded in uncertainty, a kind of self-imposed exile from the easy comforts of romantic illusion. But I was committed, heart and soul, to taking on this daunting task, this Everest of reconciliation. It felt not just like the only path forward, but the best path, the most courageous path, even if it was shrouded in the swirling mists of doubt, a path that demanded I step into the unknown with unwavering faith.

And then, to my utter astonishment, the second time around, things were…different. Not just slightly different, but profoundly, almost miraculously, transformed. We approached our re-marriage with a newfound understanding, forged in the fires of our shared hell, a willingness to forgive and forget that bordered on the heroic, and a fierce commitment to working through our issues. We chose, consciously and deliberately, to embrace the imperfect, often messy, reality of our relationship, rather than chasing the shimmering mirage of an elusive ideal relationship. And something truly remarkable happened. The years didn’t just pass; they flew by, carried on the wings of shared laughter, mutual respect, and a growing sense of partnership. We began to thrive, not just as individuals, but as a family – building traditions, supporting each other’s dreams, and creating a haven of stability for our children. And I must confess, with a sense of wonder that still surprises me, that I truly enjoy our relationship.

Just recently, as we celebrated seven years of our second marriage – a milestone that once seemed impossibly distant – it struck me with the force of a revelation: we had surpassed half the length of our first, fractured marriage. Seven years of mostly joy, growth, and a deep satisfaction that feels more meaningful, more substantial, than any fleeting romantic illusion could have been. The pain of the past hasn’t vanished; it’s woven into our story. But it’s been utterly overshadowed by the profound fulfillment of the present. Ironically, it was in the unwavering commitment, in the simple, yet profound act of choosing to return and stay, that this deep satisfaction finally blossomed. It wasn’t there at the beginning, certainly not in the sugary guise of romantic love. But it grew, slowly, patiently, unexpectedly, from the fertile, sometimes rocky, ground of commitment, watered by tears, and nourished by shared experiences. It became something richer, deeper, more real than any fairytale could ever depict – a testament to the transformative power of choosing commitment over convenience.

The experience reminded me of another biblical passage in the same Torah portion, the slave who, despite being offered freedom, chooses to remain with his wife and children (Shemot/Exodus 21:5-6). His situation, on the surface, might seem unideal, even oppressive. Yet, he chooses to stay, bound by a commitment that transcends personal liberty. He learns, perhaps surprisingly, to find joy and fulfillment within the confines of his chosen path. He sees his current situation as the best possible choice he can make. His choice, like mine, speaks to the profound power of commitment, the ability to find deep satisfaction not in the absence of challenge, but in the faithful navigation of it. It demonstrates that true fulfillment isn’t always found in escaping our circumstances, but in embracing them, making them blossom into something much greater than the typical ideal.

My journey, with all its twists and turns, its moments of despair and unexpected joy, has taught me that marriage is rarely a fairytale. It can be messy, brutally challenging, and at times, excruciatingly painful. But embracing this agony can also be crucial for profound personal growth, a source of incredible joy, and, yes, a wellspring of deep and lasting satisfaction. If you’re wrestling with the agonizing question of whether to stay together for the kids, I implore you to consider all your options with an open heart. Close your eyes for a moment and accept, with all your being, that you were placed in this situation for a purpose, a purpose that may not be immediately clear. Accept the pain that may come with remaining, embrace it even, knowing that with faith and perseverance, and with the help of the divine, this relationship, though perhaps not immediately, can and may surprisingly blossom. Perhaps one day it will become a source of profound joy, a satisfaction far richer and more complex than any fairytale you could have ever imagined, a relationship that transcends the ephemeral allure of romantic fantasies. And one day, perhaps, you will deeply, truly, thank me for this advice, not because I say it, but because this is what the Creator is imploring you to do.