The First Night My Son Slept At His Dad’s

I knew the day would come. I knew it was part of the new reality, shared custody, shared time, shared goodnights. But knowing something is coming doesn’t make it easier when it arrives. The first night my son slept at his dad’s, I walked through the house like a ghost. His toys still scattered in the living room. His pajamas still folded neatly in the drawer. His laughter still echoing in the air from just hours before. And yet, his room felt impossibly quiet.

I didn’t know what to do with myself.

No tiny hands tugging at mine. No bedtime stories. No little voice asking for one more bite of food, one more hug, one more reason to stay awake just a little bit longer. Just silence. And in that silence, came the ache.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t safe. I knew he was. His dad loves him. He was excited to go. But that night marked something more than just a sleepover, it marked the beginning of a new rhythm, one that meant I wouldn't get to witness every bedtime, every dream whispered before sleep.

And that hurt.

Not because I’m not strong. Not because I regret the co-parenting arrangement. But because I’m a mom. And when your child isn't under your roof, even for a night, it feels like part of your heart is sleeping somewhere else. I cried. I cried a lot.  I let myself feel it all. The emptiness. The guilt. The jealousy. The fear that maybe I’m missing something important. And yes, even with the strange guilt over enjoying a quiet evening I didn’t have to plan around a toddler’s bedtime.

But something else happened, too.

In that quiet, I found space for myself. I went for a walk. I sat with my thoughts. I spent time with my friends. I spent time with my brother and sister. I picked up a book I hadn’t touched in months. I started moving my body again, rediscovering how strong she is. I slowly began to fill my own cup, something I hadn’t had the space to do in a long time.

This time apart, as painful as it can be, has also become a gift. It’s allowed me to re-energize, to reset, and to reconnect with myself, not just as a mother, but as a whole human being. And in doing so, I’ve become a better mommy for him. I can be more present, more patient, more joyful. Because I’ve given myself permission to be full, too.

Co-parenting doesn’t mean losing your child. It means loving them enough to let them be loved in more than one place.

It means trusting that even in this new shape of family, your child is still surrounded by love and care.

It means creating a safe space within yourself, for the grief, for the growth, for the grace of letting go.

That first night apart didn’t break me. But it changed me. And if you’re here, staring at an empty room, folding little socks you won’t put on tiny feet tonight, wondering if your heart will ever adjust to this shared life, just know this: you’re not alone.

We are strong enough to hold space for the ache and the love.
We are brave enough to let go, little by little.
And our bond with our babies, it doesn’t disappear in the silence. It just waits for morning.

With love,
Sam