I heaved my suitcase into the back of my rusted Corolla and sank intothe driver''s seat. I was parked in the driveway of the suburban Winnipeghouse where I had become the mother of two sons, then aged five andeight. On that November night the curbs were edged with dusty snow,the brown lawns sullen and hard. On that night I was leaving my homeand my marriage of fifteen years. I backed onto the street and drove around the curve, crying so hardI couldn''t see. As soon as I was out of sight of the house, I pulled over,sobbing, my head in my arms on the cold steering wheel. My sons, Davidand Steven, had known for a week that my husband, John, and I wereseparating, but this was the first tangible step to reshaping our family.I knew their dad would care well for them that night.

Still, it had takenevery ounce of my resolve to kneel, look into their sad, bewildered faces,and hug them goodbye, saying, "I will see you tomorrow." Leaving thehouse was such a significant step, it felt unreal and desperate. After a fewbleak minutes, I took a shaky breath, restarted the car, and drove slowlyout of the neighbourhood toward my temporary refuge. The ship that had been my married life had foundered and I wasthrowing myself into black, cold water. I didn''t know how this next phasewould work, just that our family life as it was couldn''t continue. In the previous year, I had realized that our marriage was frayed tothe breaking point. Years of escalating arguments had led John and meto try counselling, but after three months, John stopped going. When Iasked, "What is it that''s not working for you?" he answered, "I just don''tthink it''s going anywhere.

" It felt like I was standing on one side of a twowaymirror with John on the other side. He could see what I was experiencing,but my view of him was opaque, shielded. I felt more and morehelpless, trying to peer through the glass. Very lonely. Finally, one sunny Saturday morning, sitting across from each otherin our matching blue wing chairs, we had our first honest talk in years.I comprehended what I hadn''t wanted to see: John''s commitment to ourmarriage was gone. As this horrifying realization sank in, I felt like I had been punched in thebelly. I spent that day sitting, walking, staring into space, trying to rearrangemy world.

We carried on for the next few weeks in an atmosphere chargedwith things unsaid as I gathered my nerve and looked at options. One thingwas clear to me: while John would be content to carry on as before, as ifnothing had changed, I could not. I peered briefly down that future path andsaw myself there -- a bitter, weary woman with no joy in living. I started examining other choices. I knew the boys loved us bothand would need time with each of us. For them to be brought up well,they would need parents who were healthy human beings. For me, inaddition to lots of time with David and Steven, I would need time tomyself each week, real downtime, or I would be a terrible mother --constantly shrewish and irritable. So, co-parenting seemed the least disastrousoption.

I confess I wasn''t all that concerned about John''s needs,but a part of me registered faintly that it would be good for him to keepconnected with the boys. I knew that John was good with David and Steven, that he lovedthem. Even through my haze of hurt and anger, I could see he had gifts tooffer them, different than mine. I drove them to music lessons, curled upwith them nightly to sing lullabies, and made sure they ate vegetables. Hetook them to his family farm and expected them to do physical labour,carried them on his shoulders, and got them giggling as he wrestledwith them. Whatever else happened, John was the boys'' father, and theyneeded to grow up knowing and taking pride in both of their parents. Inever doubted the importance of this in the long term. Once I actively began to consider leaving, I carried tension throughoutmy body, wondering if I could make good choices.

My throat felttight, my breathing shallow. I kept rolling my shoulders to try and loosenthem. My work colleagues never gave advice, which I appreciated, butthey saw me each morning haggard from lousy sleep. Puffy bags undermy eyes made me look closer to sixty than forty. In our small office,sympathetic looks told me people knew I was grappling with whether toleave my marriage. For my fortieth birthday, co-workers threw a coffeeparty, covering my office ceiling with exuberant red and white heliumballoons trailing ribbons. I almost cried at the absurdly cheerful sight. Acolleague said, "You''ll know what to do when the time comes.

" Her confidencehelped me keep listening to myself to find my next steps. I neededevery ounce of confidence-building that came my way. John and I tiptoed around each other for weeks, keeping a buffer ofpoliteness between us. "Will you be able to take Steven to his practice tomorrow night?" "Sure." We seemed stuck, unable to go back or forward. I felt increasinglyfragile, as if my inner core was dissolving in the endless effort to keep anormal facade. Finally, one evening, as I was folding laundry in our bedroom, Johncame in. I suddenly couldn''t do this any longer.

I blurted, "If we separated,would you consider co-parenting?" I was scared to ask the question,as if naming the possibility of separating might make it more real.John didn''t look at me. After a few long seconds, his answer came: "Okay." It was a huge relief to me. There was a viable, if terrifying, way forward.No one I knew was co-parenting. Considering it felt odd, as if I werepeering into strange new territory. I talked over the possibility withfriends, but no one had done anything like it.

I looked in bookstores, butat that time there was little on the shelves. Co-parenting never felt like a good choice. I had wanted so much tokeep the family together that anything else was a sad and scary unknown,something that didn''t fit the dream of family. However, the dream wasgone. Shared parenting offered the fewest bad outcomes. When I asked myself if co-parenting would work, I started by assessingour resources. First, I felt fairly confident that I could earn a living ifwe split. It wouldn''t be fancy, but we could survive.

I also believed thatJohn could stay solvent, so we each could provide some financial base.This was critical. Another factor was family support. My parents and siblingslived three thousand kilometres away in British Columbia. I wasn''twilling to uproot myself and the boys, or ask them to choose betweentheir dad and me, in order to move closer to my family. Therefore, theirdad''s relatives, right in Winnipeg, were an important resource. I feltgenuine affection for his family and believed they would provide socialsupport for both the boys and their dad. Next, I needed to look at where I would live with the boys, and wheretheir dad might live with them.

I couldn''t imagine staying in our house,with its echoes of heartache. I thought we should sell the house we jointlyowned, both move to a nearby, less expensive neighbourhood, and findhomes within walking distance of each other. John, on the other hand,first expected that I would stay in our house. When I said absolutely not,John announced he would stay there. He didn''t want to introduce anymore change into the boys'' lives than they were already facing. This turned out to be an excellent decision because it gave the boyssocial stability. I am grateful now that John insisted on staying in thehouse and that I didn''t oppose him further. I can see how pain dominatedmy thinking, limiting my readiness to consider all options carefully.

What would it be like to see the boys only part of the week and havethem move back and forth? I couldn''t imagine what it would feel likefor any of us. I supposed we would all survive, but beyond that it wasuncharted territory.