Family isn’t about perfect plans; it’s about people who show up, link arms, and choose each other daily. Angie Bardin grew up in a family that felt like a village. Her parents split when she was two, so it was mostly Angie and her mom, but they were never alone. Grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, and even great-great aunts lived nearby, especially on a little cul-de-sac where afternoons meant swinging from the clothesline, picking flowers, painting, playing games, and splashing through the creek.
For 18 years, Angie was the only child and only grandchild on her mom’s side, so those relatives became her playmates and closest friends. Her grandmother MawMaw had been a nurse and, after retiring, turned into a painter with an art room halfway down the hall that smelled of turpentine. That scent meant a day of color and brushes was ahead. Angie still hangs MawMaw’s paintings in her home and gives them as gifts, hoping her creativity keeps traveling through the family.
When her cousin Ely arrived during her first year of college, Angie’s heart shifted. He felt like a little brother because she and his mother were close. Two years later, Nichole was born, and the pair became her world. Loving them made Angie picture a family of her own someday. She met her first husband in graduate school in North Carolina. After she finished, they married and moved to Birmingham, where she worked at Samford University. Their daughter, Gwendolyn, arrived three years later, and motherhood glued itself to Angie instantly. She nursed, rocked, and memorized the shape of her tiny hands.
Returning to work at seven weeks was painful, even with kind caregivers at a church daycare. Life adjusted, as it does, and six months later, the pull of family took them back to Texas. They stayed with Angie’s mom while they found jobs and a place to live. A school district hired Angie; they bought a house close by; then came their second daughter, Graelyn. Busy became the new normal.
Over time, silence grew in the spaces that used to be full. Distance, routine, and worn-down love led to divorce shortly after nine years of marriage. Gwen was five and felt the change; Graelyn, two, would barely remember the “before.” Single parenting was a heavy lift. Angie chose it, but that didn’t make the days lighter. The hardest part, she says, was forgiving herself for repeating the story she lived as a child. Faith and reflection softened the edges in time and gave her a wider view of grace.
Angie chose it, but that didn’t make the days lighter. The hardest part, she says, was forgiving herself for repeating the story she lived as a child. In time, faith and reflection softened the edges and gave her a wider view of grace. She planned to stay single. Then an old friend from high school, Jason, reached out. He was walking his own divorce road. People who have been there recognize the look, the pace, the quiet. They started talking, met as friends, and, nudged by a coworker with Texas Rangers tickets, went on a real date.
Because they’d known each other since middle school, there wasn’t much small talk to get through. Things clicked fast. At 38, they learned they were expecting. Both already had two kids. It was a shock and, somehow, an answer. They married in November 2014 and, in March 2015, welcomed their “bridge baby,” Beau. He became the easy link that drew the four older kids closer. They still bicker because siblings do, but they also show up, defend, and laugh hard sometimes, all in the same afternoon.
Blending five kids takes structure and heart. Angie and Jason try to move as one, same rules, same consequences, no “yours” and “mine.” Their faith keeps them steady; they pray for their marriage and each child by name. They don’t pretend life is tidy. Eight years into this new chapter, there are five kids, three dogs, full-time jobs, and a calendar that never stops.
The house is rarely quiet, and someone always needs to be somewhere. They fight sometimes and fail sometimes, but they circle back to support, cheers from the stands, late-night talks at the kitchen counter, and the belief that they’ve been blessed beyond their own strength. Angie looks at where she started on that cul-de-sac, in that art room, and sees training she didn’t know she was getting. Being raised by a crowd taught her to listen across generations, to value help, and to trust that love can be rebuilt. With all its noise and motion, the family she has now feels like the natural next verse of an old song.
