I have trouble understanding how the law and relationships mix. In Quebec (my home province), couples form and dissolve, most often without a marriage to seal the deal. Common-law relationships are the way to go in La Belle Province.

I asked a friend of mine from Nevada about her divorce. "You have to go to court and the judge tells you whether you can divorce or not."

Wait a second. A judge, someone who has no idea who you are, what your troubles are or who your partner is, decides whether you have to continue a marriage you don't want to? This makes no sense to me.

Dividing assets, I understand. Someone has to decide who gets the car or the kitchen table, and it's tough to make decisions like that when you're angry.

Child custody, I get. It's important that children stay where they want to and where they need to be with a person that can take care of them properly. And in separations, kids are often jammed in the middle between two parents who fight over custody like vicious dogs.

But some person who doesn't know you should have no right to decide who you have to live with and be joined to. The law and relationships don't mix.

A judge isn't going to be able to make your partner be nicer to you. A court of law can't make you feel whole or repair hurt feelings. It makes no sense to force a person who doesn't want to be with someone else to continue a farce.

I have no idea if the law in Quebec says the same — that a judge must approve the breakup. Perhaps that's the rule, and if so, it's no wonder why people simply don't get married. You can't force love. Paper doesn't make it happen.

If you want out, you should have the right to get out. Period. And if you want someone to stay, and they don't want to, then you have no right to force them to remain in a place they don't want to be.

Have you ever felt caught in whirlwind with no anchor in sight?

That's how I felt when I left my first partner. We had a child, a beautiful three-year-old girl full of charm and spirit. When the family separated, we fought long and hard over where she would live and who would be her main caregiver.

Of course, we each had our own opinion of what was best. We went to court and drained ourselves financially. We each hired vicious lawyers who loved the game of legal affairs to prove our case. We were assigned a judge who knew the game far too well and who didn't care.

We monitored conversations with each other. We kept records of phone calls and what had been said. We went to psychological testing to attempt to discount the other parent. We had our daughter tested too, in the hopes she'd affirm her choice. Mommy wanted the choice to be her and Daddy was cheering for himself.

When the money ran out, nearly a year later, we had very little to show. We had a signed agreement stamped by the courts that basically approved how we'd been arranging custody since we'd separated. Our daughter spent a week with me and a week with her father.

Fast forward two years. Dad and I got along just fine. Sure, we had some minor arguments, usually over petty things and usually fueled by the opinions of friends and family. But we did alright.

Another two years later, and my daughter decided she was tired of moving back and forth. She put her foot down and chose the house she liked best — or rather, the house that was more convenient for her needs. That suited me fine. Dad didn't care much either — he just wanted his daughter to be happy.

He now comes to visit twice a week. We're a little smarter, a little wiser. We're older and probably don't get such a rise from life any more. We have coffee and he chats with his daughter. He respects me and I respect him.