Disastrous Divorces

"I'll buy a house-"

"No."

"With a backyard-"

"No."

"And a treehouse!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not the same."

"It will be the same. Just new."

"No."

"I'll have to do it one day. A garden with a vegetable patch? A big, great garden bed. 

Has your mum found you a higschool yet?"

Sitting down at La Porchetta restaurant the other day with my sister, I opened my mouth once more, this time to take in the last bite of my splendid chicken breast, marinated in Vino Bianco sauce, held on my fork with bits of leafy green salad and a fried chip. I must have done this really slowly to have her staring at me in an agitated manner. She had, for once, finished her food much earlier than I had, and this time she was waiting for me to finish. I was savouring every bite, for the sake of not leaving hurriedly like one would at a fast food restaurant. This time, I was going to savour my time here. Little did I know how much I would want to savour my time after the bite, after the last legitimate reason for lengthening my stay.

Just as I was bringing the forkful of lovely food to my mouth, a man in his late forties and his daughter, who appeared to be around eleven years old, were led to the table behind me by a waitor. They took their seats, and as I was chewing on the last bite of my meal, the conversation above took place. I quickly took out my smartphone and documented the exact conversation. It did not occur to me that this man was a fresh divorcee until the last sentence. And for a while, I found it seemingly difficult to swallow the best bite of the entire meal.

My mind processed the information rather slowly. And now, instead of looking at me with agitation, my sister looked at me in fear, as if she were thinking, 'oh dear, another story idea...' But it was not another story idea, it was another essay idea. It was the most realistic, most raw idea I have yet to come across. This time, I did not have to make up any dialogue - it was flawless, the entire dialogue was unfolding itself behind my very nape, and I could have sworn that my ears had turned to face the direction behind me, just to have their turn at savouring something for once.

Rather than chicken, salad, fries and a chilled Coca Cola, my stomach was now processing a sullen, mellow feeling, topped with guilt, guilt from me being unappreciative toward the family I am blessed with, guilt from all those nights that I thought I had the worst family when, despite our slight dysfucntionality, we actually have it all very well pieced together. And I sat there, listening to his daughter's confident disagreeing and his begging, his failed attempt at bribery - this man was trying to bribe his own daughter into encouraging the rest of his life alone.

This man was bribing a product of the twenty-first century with a vegetable garden, a treehouse, an entirely new house. How can a young girl accept these things when she is too busy thinking about the Barbie dress-up application on her up-to-date iPad? How could she abandon the comfort of the television's glow to spend time in a naturally heated treehouse, built by her very own father? This could not be. But most importantly, how could she tear herself apart from her mother, who she was obviously close to, and spend time with her emotional wreck of a father who tried to show her love by offering to grow her a vegetable garden? Had this man lost his mind? Had her father forgotten the convenience of Coles supermarket? She was a girl of class, not a girl of farms. How could he forget that?

Now that more people are admitting to being homosexual because of the wider acceptance of marriage equality, the divorce rates in Victoria have jumped over 100% since the year 2001, making Victoria the second nation-wide state with the highest divorce rates. Out of every one-thousand people in Australia, 2.5% of them are divorced. Women in Australia have been filing more divorces than men – in fact, today, Australian women are more likely to get a divorce than to die. Approximately fifty-one thousand, three-hundred and eleven divorces have been happening each year.

This means that the father and mother of this little girl at La Porchetta are in the divorce statistics of Australia, a sad but true case. In fact, I have seen more divorcees recently when I am out shopping. I even came across one at the beach, who, while I was metal-detecting, taking a leap of luck, with a hint of a tear in his eye he suggested that I go to the main area of the beach, since I might be more lucky because apparently married couples fight there and may lose their wedding rings from vigorously throwing about their hands. He mounted his motorbike after advising me and telling me that he was an interior designer, since my guess of him being a writer, judging by his glasses was wrong. He revved off into the distance.

Divorces are horrid experiences. I can only presume so, because for starters, I am yet to be wed. From eavesdropping unintentionally on the conversation behind me at La Porchetta, I was able to receive a minuscule glimpse into the divorced life, from two perspectives – one, the perspective of a desperate and lonely father trying to bribe his daughter into accepting his new living conditions and in doing so, almost soothing himself over the fact that major changes are about to take place, and the latter, the perspective of the little girl disinterested by the bribery of a vegetable garden and a treehouse, who most likely is questioning why this separation is taking place.

Having these sort of romantic downfalls around me, I dread to find myself wed and separated, especially if I am ever to be blessed with children of my own. For divorces do not drag each member of the couple through the dirt, but if the circumstance permits, also the children. Like the little girl puts it, “it’s not the same.” It simply is not the same.