Molly had two mommies.

It began with my trip to France--or rather, my return trip. Ever come back from a big voyage determined to surprise? That was me. Two months minding seven enfants terribles as an au pair at age 18 gave me the will and the means. My dirty-blond mop had become a trim black pixie cut, and I'd traded overalls for a diminutive miniskirt, Extra sugar-free gum for

Lucky Strikes. No wonder Mom cried when she spotted me among the international arrivals.

Actually it had nothing to do with me. Mom was a wreck. She'd been contemplating a breakup for months back when I'd been planning my trip. I was oblivious, just as I had been when my parents divorced a decade before. Back then I'd thought they were sitting my sister and me down to announce the birth of a dreaded third sibling. Ick--more sharing. Instead, I got two houses, two televisions, and two happier parents. Why should this split be any different?

Well, Mom wasn't married this time. Committed, yes--and settled. Exhibit A: house; B: kids; C: dog. All this she shared with one woman from the time I was 12 until that day in the car at Kennedy International Airport, when she explained through tears that we were on our own again. I had seen my mother upset, but never like this. It scared me that this strong woman who'd taught me to stand up for myself and love whomever I chose should be so shaken.

Days later I left her and began my first year at college. I spent the next few months doing my best to avoid talking with her about Chrys, the woman I believed had left us. When Chrys called, I hung up. She wrote, and I buried myself in mind-numbing economics homework.

By the time I came home that winter, Chrys knew not to bother. My sister spoke of visits with her, with lures like ice cream and movies. Mom pleaded with me to go along. So did my sister. (I still wonder whether she did this just to annoy me. Must have. Little sisters aren't allowed to be right.)

But cut me some slack here--nobody told me how to act when someone is inexplicably obliterated from the family picture. My parents divorced, but Dad was always there: in family stories, driving over for a visit or graduation. Relatives still ask how he's doing. Those who couldn't place my mom's former partner didn't seem to miss her. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthday outings came and went. Few mentioned Chrys. Although I eventually relented and we reconciled when she and Mom tried dating again, Mom moved on. It was over.

Nobody told me; it just was.

"Nobody told me." When crisis strikes, out pops the small child in each of us, muttering that helpless refrain. Well, consider this fair warning. Divorce happens to gay couples and their kids. It wrecks you in ways that straight divorce can't touch. The worst part: When the process turns you inside out--and it will--those insides look pretty depressing.

Fear. Shame. Ignorance. What I saw in stark relief were all the ways I'd failed my mother and the woman she loved by being an egotistical, self-absorbed brat--in other words, your typical American teenager. But as my mother says, every step is a place to learn. What I learned was the art of internal housekeeping. This woman helped raise me. She shepherded me through the schizophrenia that is adolescence, taught me to laugh grudgingly through tears. She is one of my confirmation namesakes. She is important. I was willing to shed my insecurities if it meant keeping her in my life.

It was awkward at first, this reconciliation. Consider homecomings to three different homes, and you get a sense of the juggling involved. But that's what choosing to be related is about. In return for the headache logistics, I get to be a "heart daughter." I get midnight phone calls, holiday visits, and news of life in her world. My sister does too. For once I'm willing to share.

Hennessy-Fiske is a staff writer at The Palm Beach [Fla.] Post and also contributes to the newsletter for COLAGE, Children of Lesbians and Gays Everywhere.