Lately, we’ve been garnering some strange looks, the three of us. People smile when we pass them at the supermarket, grin at us from parked cars, chuckle quietly to themselves as they witness our animated conversations.

I know the looks from these strangers. It’s the look of folks observing love at work, love in play.

I am in love with my daughters, more than ever.

We seem to have finally hit our stride. Not to say there are not difficult moments, but for the most part, we have worked out our post-divorce routine as an all-girl unit. We have come to happy terms as a threesome instead of a foursome. There is a fluid give-and-take, with much good humor and lively chatter, but Mama here is definitely alpha. It works. They know exactly where I’ve drawn the lines in the sand. Although they occasionally try to inch a painted toenail past the line, they are good, honest, respectful girls. We all play by the rules, including me: when you screw up, you say you’re sorry, and you say it quickly and earnestly. No excuses.

Nine, six, and forty years of age. That’s a lot of life, a lot of shared experiences among us. The divorce has been difficult on them because they did not see it coming. We were not fighters, and they perceived us as mostly just fine—plenty happy with each other as husband and wife. They were small, and it came as a great shock to them. It came to us as a shock as well.

But now we are all thriving, or beginning to. Their time with their father looks different, feels very different from their time with me. They are learning that this is just fine, that lessons are happening unique to each household. They are getting what they need, even if it is not what they ever wanted for us and for themselves. I watch them blossom into lovely young ladies of character and quirk and smarts and beauty and humor, tolerant of other’s shortcomings and of their own.

It doesn’t always, but in this case? Love wins.