Many moons ago, I read a clever observation by a psychologist, that there are always six people in every marriage bed: husband, wife and both sets of parents. A recent experience reminded me that we never travel down the path to any decision truly alone.

            The story: A young couple was slowly working their way through all of the trauma and difficult choices for planning their lives as parents when no longer married. Their very young child seemed to be adapting to the sea change in their lives with greater ease than either of them, they so much more aware and worried about life without love, and with financial hardship.

            Although divided about many things, from the outset of mediation they were completely in sync about their goals for their child, and even for promoting each other’s chances for future well-being. Splitting up their accumulated assets was easy, coping with their high mortgage payments less so. Yet, some decisions for the short term were possible, because for a few years the husband, a medical researcher, was willing to contribute the lion share of his income to retain the marital residence, for the sake of stability, and to avoid a fire sale in a weak housing market. And as their child was so young, he readily agreed that his wife should not seek a job until their daughter was school age. He would rent a small apartment nearby and live frugally. Grandparents stood ready to help out a bit financially. The chips were all falling into place.

            And then they weren’t.

            His lawyer strongly objected to the level of support he proposed to contribute for the next two years, saying: No court would ever make you pay so much. She’s bleeding you dry. She needs to get a job and help with the mortgage, or sell the house. I can’t let you do this.

            On their return to mediation he announced he had changed his mind, and his wife was soon in tears. He asked to speak with me alone.

            His words: It isn’t just my lawyer, although she says I’m being a fool, but it’s everyone else too. Since I’m the one who’s leaving, I’m made out to be the bad guy. But trust me, we’ve both been miserable for a long time. My friends say I’m crazy, letting my guilt get ahead of my reason. I want her to keep the house, and be a full-time mom, but maybe it’s just not possible.

            I took note of his use of the word “maybe,” recognizing the pull between where his heart led him, and the dictates of his lawyer, and his need to seem forceful in the eyes of his friends. These bystanders, who likely saw themselves as fulfilling their role as advocate and as loyal supporters, fueled an anger and resentment he’d not previously expressed.

            Ironically, selling the house now, likely at a loss, might well leave them less financially secure. Could his wife, a graphic artist, find a job earning enough to even meet the cost of their child’s day care?  And most important, what would happen to the ease that had evolved as he and his wife now related as parents? He nodded his understanding when these questions were raised, but said only that he needed more time to think it over.

            Would he be strong enough to withstand the judgment of his lawyer, and his friends, who portrayed him as impotent and her as domineering?            

            His compatriots, invisible contributors to the decisions he faced when negotiating in my office, were sabotaging his better judgment. A group decision was being made. Could he pull himself away and stand alone?

            His wife was out of the marriage bed, but many others had climbed in.