Like many children of divorce, I’ll never forget the day my parents told me they were splitting up.
I was 12, and I’d come rushing home from school with a picture I had done in art class – a Picasso copied from a book, in oil pastels. I was ridiculously proud of it, and couldn’t wait to show my parents. But I never did show them the picture, because when I got home they were sitting at the kitchen table, waiting to tell me that their marriage was over.
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