In 2003, two college kids got pregnant, freaked out, broke up, and had a baby (in that order). They fought, said nasty things, went to court, said more nasty things, and eventually wound up living a few blocks from one another – parenting a daughter while just barely speaking. Now, nearly four years later (and on considerably better terms), each has a new significant other, and the daughter lives in two houses, with one mom, one dad and two step-parents.

Oddly enough, she seems pretty normal.

* * *

When Edan was born, I couldn't speak. I just stared at her while the doctors brought her into the room, my body tingling like I'd gone into shock, my eyes welled up like they'd burst into tears if I dared allow myself to breathe. As I held my daughter for the first time – surrounded by her mother's family – the most earth-shattering moments of my life played out in a room full of strangers I didn't think I could trust.

Welcome to life as a separated parent.

While, statistically, we're no anomaly, truth be told, we're not exactly normal, either. Normally, your most emotionally-charged relationships are contained to small, trusted circle of loved ones. Generally speaking, you're not required by law to share these feelings with a person who, in most cases, wouldn't get unsupervised access even to your grocery list. But every time your kid says a new word, or discovers a new idea, or does something else you find overwhelming or amazing, there's (at least) one other parent that's laughing, crying and reeling with you. There's somebody else that held your daughter when she was so small that she fit between your palm and your elbow – only a few, earth-shattering moments old.

And at first, it was too much being so exposed. Completely unprepared for parenthood, scared to death I wasn't good enough, and buried under months of resentment I was an emotional absentee. I spent months feeling like Edan wasn't really in my life, but just an addendum to it. I was sure that if anyone saw the kind of unchecked, unwavering devotion that you're supposed to see when you look at parents, I'd be trapped – right back in that hospital delivery room, delirious, desperate, and hopelessly vulnerable.

Sure, I was still a father – but with the volume turned down.

* * *

Then, this past Halloween, I was invited to go trick-or-treating with Edan, her mom, and some friends.

It was Edan's first real Halloween, and she suddenly felt far too grown up. When you only see your kid on the weekends, there's always something new about them – they've always grown up just a little bit between now and when you last saw them. And maybe it was the nostalgia of the whole affair, but Edan seemed especially different that night, as she led the pack of families from house to house, shouting "Let's get more candy!" over, and over, and over again.

And later, as the night was winding down, and the last few houses turned out their porch lights, the other kids went home with their moms and dads. I gave Edan a hug, told her I loved her, and said goodnight in a stranger's driveway – reminding her not to eat all her candy at once.

She drove off with her mom, and I stood there alone, finally accepting what I'd been missing the past two years.

So I turned the volume up.

* * *

These days, those two college kids are more or less grown-up. They've learned how to speak to one another, occasionally even working together to make big decisions for their now two and a half year-old daughter.

They're now, sort of, friends.

They've recently, sort of, become used to the idea that the other's partner is an important part of their daughter's life – that she has four parents, all of whom she loves. Because at the end of the day, when that daughter wants to know why her mommy and daddy don't live in the same house, both want to mean it when they tell her that it isn't any worse like this, and that she isn't loved any less, and that she's isn't missing out on anything – at all.

And all four parents want it to be true.