The front verandah is a welcoming place; proving shelter to you and your guests, a comforting area, no matter the weather. I’ve got many childhood memories of running up to the door in excitement, jumping off it in glee. I can remember the ferns, carefully hung to catch the morning sun, and afternoon shade, the wooden boards, cut and hammered by my grandfathers hand. It lead to a meandering stone path, lined with agapanthus, up the hill towards the driveway, with a few steps, which led to the street. The length of the walk, barely considered, so serene it was.

There is one memory of that verandah that has stuck with me, more vividly than any other. I estimate it was around 1981, when I was about eight years old. I sat in the lounge room, huddled near our small black and white tv, nearby the window overlooking the front verandah. It was perhaps a simpler time, before mobile phones, internet, and the Rubix cube. The lounge room was quite dark, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually old pub carpet that was laid there. The couch was worn and had rips in it, from the cat sharpening it’s claws, and a car radio, clamped with jumper leads to a battery was where the old turntable used to be. The curtains were heavy, but open, to reveal a lace curtain that softened and filtered the light. The trees could be seen, but faded to make a soft backdrop. My mum was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. I loved dinner. I hoped it was a casserole. My mum made the best casserole.

It was then that I heard footsteps on the front verandah, followed by a gentle knocking at the door. I had spent the previous weekend at my Dad’s house, and had left something there – I can’t remember what it was. He had taken the time to bring it over for me. So unusual, and exciting to have my Dad come over during the week, my heart started to race…. and was instantly shattered.

My Mother answered the door. My Dad began to talk, and held out his hand, to give Mum what he had. I jumped off the couch, but before I reached the door, and before he finished his sentence, she quickly snatched my thing out of his hand, with a look of hatred, did not say a word and slammed the door in his face with such force that the windows rattled. I was stunned. It seemed like minutes passed, before I saw, through my tears, my Father’s silhouette pass by the window, and I buried my head in the couch, as I heard his footsteps rattling some of the loose floorboards, leave the verandah. Then silence.

I can’t remember what was for dinner, and if I even ate it.

I cried for so long. To be honest, it’s a memory that still haunts me. I’ve got issues around confrontation, that develop from episodes like this, and that opens me up to people with dominating attitudes. It wasn’t just a moment in time, it was a defining moment. I have been determined to be a good parent, and give my son the opportunities I never had.

I will sometimes have my son’s mother over for dinner, so we can share a meal at the table. Changeover between houses has always been done deliberately slowly, to let him settle. I sometimes cop flack for doing these things, but putting your children’s emotions before your own, is an adult thing to do.

If you have kids and are separated, I hope you have the opportunity to do things right. Your children, and their future are worth it. They deserve your love, and the opportunity to love and embrace both their parents. It’s not their fault.