The brutal truth about my first post-divorce Christmas

Splitting up after 18 years of marriage was the right thing to do, says author Jane Green. But it is far from easy – especially at this time of year, when an empty house can be a stark reminder of the family life you once built and shared together.

After 18-years of marriage Jane moved to Marrakech for a new beginnning (Jane Green)

It was my first Christmas alone after the end of my marriage. Instead of being with my children (I have four, all now young adults) in America, where I have lived for 20 years. I found myself halfway across the world, in Morocco, by myself.

Yes, I missed the kids, but I was also enormously proud of myself for having the courage and stamina to leave a marriage that was no longer working and embark on a new adventure. It is a hard thing, perhaps the hardest thing in the world, to leave someone you love who cannot meet your needs. Harder still in your late fifties. Coupledom, even when it’s miserable, feels more solid, more secure than the overwhelm and terror of navigating everything in life on your own.

This wasn’t what I would have chosen, except, I did choose it. I had reached a point where I felt there was no other choice. I didn’t stop to think about how much I would be giving up. I had no idea of quite how much – particularly when the days get shorter and the nights get colder – I would miss our family life.

When my first solo Christmas rolled around, I was living in a small rented riad in the medina in Marrakech. I had come here for a new solo-adventure, but I had no idea where to get a Christmas tree, although honestly, it didn’t feel like Christmas. There were no twinkling lights in the surrounding streets, just business as usual. Plus, it wasn’t very cold. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. On Christmas Eve, I was invited to join new friends, which was a relief, given that I hadn’t spent Christmas Eve alone in 25 years. They offered me the guest room, which I gladly accepted.

Jane Green with her friend and her daughter’s friend last Christmas (Jane Green)

Then, two days before, a friend of my daughter’s phoned. She was in London and couldn’t afford to fly home for Christmas. Could she possibly come and spend Christmas with me in Marrakech? Nothing could have made me happier. Christmas didn’t feel like Christmas without young people, music, hustle and bustle. She booked her flight, and I brought her with me to my Christmas Eve friendsmas. We both slept over, borrowing our hosts’ cosy Christmas onesies for a shared breakfast in the riad. It was sweet, and welcoming, and warm, but it didn’t feel much like Christmas at all.

Christmas Eve has always been my night. Each year when I was married, we invited people to drop in on Christmas Eve, assuming that half of them wouldn’t show, but all of them showed, every year, usually with house guests. Our house was always heaving. I made endless racks of spiced farmhouse ribs, and Jamie Oliver’s Yorkshire puddings with smoked salmon and horseradish sour cream. Everyone showed up in sequins and sparkles, my own covered up by an apron as I sweated by the stove.

The children’s friends would come, people from every walk of our lives, but the best bit of all was when most people had left, and just a handful of closest friends remained, gathered around the fireplace, debriefing the party. When everyone left and the kids had gone to bed, I’d clean up, then head upstairs to wrap the last of the presents, before sliding them under the tree.

A family and friend’s Christmas party at Jane’s former family home (Jane Green)

Last year, my kids were with their father, so a shared family Christmas was never an option. I realise now I was still slightly numb, not yet ready to fully face the grief and loss that comes with a breakdown of an 18-year marriage. Instead of facing it, I danced it away on Medina rooftops, swallowed it with alcohol, anything not to feel the pain.

But pain and grief can’t be buried forever if healing is to be had. This past year has been the year of quieting down. Of going inwards rather than out, of finally being brave enough to feel it all.

I am no longer living in the medina, realising how exhausting it is to live in the midst of hustle and bustle. Now, I live in a little rented villa on the outskirts of Marrakech. It is in the country, olive trees on one side, the snow-capped Atlas Mountains majestic from the rooftop,on the other a view of the Palmeraie, where, every morning, scores of hot air balloons hang in an orange sky.

‘This past year has been the year of quieting down. Of going inwards rather than out, of finally being brave enough to feel it all’ (Jane Green)

Having left our American home and not quite ready to return to England full-time, this is my chosen halfway home for a period of reflection and midlife transformation. I have shipped over my container holding everything I have collected for the past forty years, and unpacked it in this little house. My art, books, furniture. Collections of things, all of which tell the story of my life, and the lives of my children.

Having our things here, without them, feels both comforting and discombobulating, as does having my first Christmas in a house that finally feels like a home. I found a Christmas tree last week at the Pepiniere on the road to Casablanca. I dug out the Christmas box from storage and found all the baubles my family had collected over the years, many chosen by the children, some with all our names painted on them. Our family dogs were represented, our cats. It was bittersweet to hang them on the tree, knowing that I’ll be the only one to see them.

I was desperate for them to stay; I wanted them to perhaps fall a little in love with Morocco in the way I have. Perhaps if they did, they might have a place to call home again, even if it’s not where they were raised.

But they’re young, they’re busy. I do not blame them for not wanting to come to North Africa. I flew to New York a few weeks ago to have Thanksgiving with them, which was both lovely, and brutal. I was a guest at my son’s table, no longer the mistress of my kitchen; no longer the featherer of the nest they can call home. I felt like a visitor, and every moment was filled with the pang of missing our family life, our unit.

(Jane Green)

And, I missed my husband. We are not supposed to be together, and are on very different paths, but now that the dust of our divorce has settled, I can finally acknowledge how much everything we built together, all that we shared. My week with the children was lovely, but also emotionally exhausting. They were dividing up their time, trying to make everyone happy, but I was just left feeling sad and alone because the memories of how it had been were so present.

So, I will once again be on my own for Christmas this year. Yes, I have friends. I have already volunteered to host something here on Christmas Day, and invitations are arriving for various parties. And still, there is a part of me that yearns for what I once had. My children. Our old house. My old friends. The comfort of familiarity.

I have a propensity to romanticise the past. Like the movie, The Family Stone, I hoped the children would always come home to our rambling Connecticut farmhouse, that we would long continue our traditions. But, it probably wasn’t all as perfect as I remember it. I was probably shouty and stressed for much of the time. I certainly remember longing for a quieter life, not realising how completely untethered and lost I would feel the minute it happened.

I have learned the art of surrender, accepting what life offers me, rather than trying to bend it to my will. I try to focus on what I am grateful for rather than what I have lost. And so, while I acknowledge my feelings of sadness, they sit side by side with gratitude for what I am building too. Finding the Christmas decorations that tell the story of what was, for a long time, a wonderful family life.