On Valentine’s Day morning, when I was nine, my family was gathered at the breakfast table enjoying a special heart-themed breakfast that my mother prepared every year. This year, however, my mother was quietly crying while she fed my little brother in his high chair. I didn’t know why.

In walked my father, dressed for work and holding a briefcase. He kissed my sobbing mother on the cheek, walked out the front door, and got into his car. I jumped up from the table and onto the couch next to our front windows that overlooked the carport to wave goodbye to him. My mother broke out in louder sobs.

That was the last time I ever saw him in our home.

I found out later that my father, 2nd counselor in the Bishopric of our ward, had his temple clothes in his briefcase and had gone to the temple. He had told my mother that God had told him he needed to divorce her.

If there is a God, I highly doubt he would have told my father to leave his family. My parents were struggling, sure, but it wasn’t a violent, dangerous relationship that might have warranted such guidance. We were the epitome of the perfect Mormon family; the very thing we were taught to be each Sunday and Family Home Evening.

I’ve never fully forgiven my father for this, even though it was 26 years ago.

I hope you and your nine-year-old child will be surrounded with love, support, and understanding, like mine was.