Why having a family holiday with my ex left me simmering in a cocktail of grief, betrayal and guilt… As Canadian PM Justin Trudeau and his estranged wife say they’re taking a summer break with their children

So the Trudeaus break up. Canada’s first couple is calling it quits after 18 years of what everyone thought was a blissful brunette marriage.

But wait, just like the thoroughly nice couple they are, the Prime Minister and his wife, Sophie, are going on one last holiday together with their children, Xavier, 15, Ella-Grace, 14, and Hadrien, nine.

Not only that, but in the future, they plan to co-parent by keeping the marital home in Ottawa as a base even though they are no longer together – a concept apparently known as “nesting.”

They may have been on the road for two weeks in sunny Cancun, or on one last healthy camping trip in the Canadian wilderness, but if they’re still in the planning stages or even the packaging stage, I have some well-deserved advice: Don’t!

I wouldn’t say my ex and I had the most stress-free divorce. But we lived in the same house for another six months after he decided to leave. And if that wasn’t bad enough, we also did what we thought was sensible at the time and went on vacation together. Not once, but twice. As if the first time wasn’t hard enough.

The first time was just before he left home, when things fell apart, and the second time was a year later, when only two of our four children were still living at home—the others in college or at a disadvantage. year. We also did Christmas together – twice. And believe me, that’s how madness lies – literally, in my case, but that’s another story.

Let’s stick to the godforsaken excuse for vacation. Yes it was booked and paid for. And I was foolish enough to think that maybe a while away under the Sicilian sun would be healing and bring us back under a yoke together.

In our case, the ostensible reason for our impending divorce was my ex’s claim that we were “broken.” I sure was. Our marriage was about as perfect as DIY rhinoplasty, and no less painful — but we had four kids, and my ex was my rock, despite all the issues we had about being in the same room together.

Splitting up felt like an impossibility, so I grabbed every straw I could get my hands on while, let’s face it, I wandered around like West London’s version of a weeping Madonna, staring at the Mediterranean sunset, recalling happiness from the past, crying into my Campari soda in the town square, trying to put on a brave smile every time the kids looked at me.

Frankly, I probably would have left me too, such was my martyrdom.

Meanwhile, the ex, who always hid behind a newspaper at every opportunity, stayed true to form, playing the role of an extremely reasonable parent. ‘Yes, you can go to the next village with those teenagers you met on the beach. Of course, I’ll send you in a taxi.’ Meanwhile, I panicked and looked almost insane at the very idea.

He spent the two weeks playing a good, reasonable, indulgent cop; I was the bummer, the ineffectual disciplinarian who also tried to be the gentle wife (something that doesn’t come easily to me, especially during the process of being dumped).

Like Justin Trudeau, he didn’t leave me for anyone else. Ooh, no. We just didn’t work. But we would always be close. He would always love me. I was the mother of his children, blah blah blah, and he still called me “honey.”

In retrospect, it sounds highly dysfunctional, but as far as we’re concerned, we were civilized, mature, and responsible; caring even.

However, it’s not easy to be caring when you feel 50 percent distraught and 50 percent as bitter as unsweetened lemonade. We’d have a nice conversation, a nice bottle of wine, in an idyllic restaurant, and I’d suddenly feel a wave of rage I could barely contain and I’d want to punch him. Likewise, I could sense his lack of patience with my dying duck act, which elicited no sympathy from him, only more fear of actually leaving.

Then there were his long solo walks that provoked a sigh if I wanted to join him. The obsession with Wi-Fi, and the laptop hurriedly consulted at every conceivable opportunity, made me chase my every move with suspicion, clinging to him like a wet shower curtain whenever he checked his email. I mean, of course there was another woman. It just wasn’t confirmed.

It’s hard to be nice when you’re simmering in a cocktail of sadness, betrayal, shame, and guilt. Heck, family vacations are an ordeal, even if you’re not getting a divorce.

By the following year, things had slipped into fake happily estranged family mode. He’d moved into a flat with no spare room, and I’d taken a tenant to keep the house from feeling like an empty shell, as by then I was home alone with just our youngest, who was in the middle of her hating me period, which lasted for several long, painful years. She adored her father and when he left I was the accomplice she had to kick at every opportunity.

An unhappy tween is like living with an angry snake. I was covered in bites. But it was understandable. Her father took her out to dinner and shopping; I got the eye roll and the silent treatment.

So why go on holiday together again? And why would you go to a wedding in the US a year later to painfully watch another couple pledge their love to each other? Ditto why put on a brave face to visit family friends and share rooms (albeit in girls’ and boys’ rooms), and lock yourself into even more outings pretending you’re still a united front when you’re actually so divided are like korea?

I think the moment I realized the idiocy of it all was when the ex idly grabbed my hairbrush and started using it, and I knocked it out of his hand. There are boundaries you just can’t cross, no matter how much you long for togetherness.

Why would you let your ex come over for Christmas and do all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the prep, and have him toil halfway through the day under the shouts of joy from your kids saying, “Yes, now Christmas can begin!” ‘, while you’re the one who’s been baking a chocolate sponge village complete with icing sugar snow since dawn, and wrapping those last-minute presents?

When my ex demanded that I return him to the flat he then shared with the girlfriend, who of course was lurking all along, I finally threw in the towel. Sod this, I thought. I’m not your wife, no matter how many “darlings” you add at the end of the sentence.

So we don’t go on holiday together anymore. We might meet for a single family anniversary and in fact now, almost 15 years later, we really are like family with each other. We get mad, we make up, I ask his advice sometimes, I ignore it as usual.

He’s moved to the US, to a house about a two-hour bus ride from the nearest airport, so visiting family isn’t on his priority list. And he has another daughter, who will soon be old enough to give him the stink eye and ignore him. Self-righteous? No, but I can’t say that the idea of ​​him going through the horrible teenage years doesn’t fill me with a little glee. You know, a teaspoon full.

He told me to visit them. That will never happen. Although we have agreed that if there are big family reunions in Europe with all the kids, I will have the option to be there, in a separate apartment of course.

What could go wrong after all these years? On reflection, don’t answer that.

So yes, I can understand why the Trudeaus want to keep a family feel even as they split up. And, golly, I hope it works out better for them than it does for me. And maybe, as they hope, they can “remain a close-knit family with deep love and respect for each other.”

Maybe they’ve been living fairly separate lives for years while still living together. Let’s be real here, a lot of couples are in that situation. Sometimes it takes something or other to meet someone else, to get them to take the last foray.

Custom is the killer of many marriages, and being in the public eye as well as being part of a political dynasty carries its own baggage.

Notably, the last Canadian Prime Minister to divorce while still in office was Justin’s father Pierre – from his mother Margaret.

So a holiday en famille when they have decided to part ways may not be that different from any other holiday when both parties are disconnected and drifting apart.

Interestingly enough, it was the Trudeaus’ birthday earlier this year. Justin tweeted a photo of the couple holding hands in an RV with the tagline, “Every mile of this journey together is an adventure. I love you Soph.’

It may seem a little strange that I went from that anniversary post to a divorce in just a few months, but on my 50th birthday before we broke up when things were tough my ex stood up and gave a speech about what a wonderful, beautiful, talented woman that I was, who listed every article I had ever written.

In hindsight it was more of a resume than a tribute, but since he wasn’t a man who ever said anything nice about me in public, I was extremely touched and excited. I thought it meant we were back on track. However, three weeks later he told me he wanted to leave. He actually gave me my farewell speech. I should have gotten a travel clock and a golden handshake.

The next chapter in the Trudeaus’ journey will no doubt be taken apart. Maybe I’m a romantic and I think their trip this summer doesn’t mean the love isn’t there at all. It’s just not enough anymore.

It took us about 12 years to get divorced. Honestly, even with all the fear and humiliation, we were happier married those years than we had been in the previous 12.

It’s not the end of the world to come to terms with the end of a marriage, if you manage to renegotiate the terms.

We still have a lot of love for each other, and when I meet my ex he still tries to hold my hand. I tell him to stop, in flowerier terms. Then we laugh.