The progressive hollowing out of our daughter through our Parent Wars…
How my ex and I took our innocent young daughter and destroyed her emotionally, making it impossible for her to make good decisions, forcing her into years of self-destructive behaviors
My phone rang.
I looked to see who was calling and suddenly a black cloud came over me.
It was my ex.
Why was she calling? I hated that woman.
All she said was that our daughter had run away again and that this time nobody knew where she was. Then she hung up.
I sat there stunned, staring at my phone.
So that was it. My poor daughter. Her behavior had been spiraling downhill for years—defiant, rebellious, and untamable. She had run away before but nothing like this. She had finally hit bottom. My fifteen-year-old was now completely gone.
I blamed her mother.
Years earlier, my ex left our marriage saying to me that she wanted to discover a new life for herself and new relationships.
I was convinced she had little regard for our children, believing she was ignoring the emotional damage she was causing them by her choice of lifestyle.
Back then I couldn’t just stand there and let my kids think their mother’s behavior was acceptable—so I fought back. I taught my children to oppose their mother. I wanted them to know the truth about her. I wanted them to object to her behavior. I wanted them to favor loyalty and faithfulness. I wanted them to favor me.
But their mother also vigorously opposed me.
It was too much for my kids, causing them serious emotional problems, especially my daughter.
I hated everything about my ex.
I hated everything about my ex.
Does any of this sound familiar?
Is there anything in this story that you might identify with?
Once separation occurs, everything—and it seems like everyone—changes. Everyone is affected, especially the kids.
The connection with our exes once built on companionship and trust is now filled with broken promises and painful memories, and for many of us, feelings of betrayal and deceit.
Now, just to see the ex is difficult. Just hearing their name or talking about them is hard. I know many parents who still, after several years, cannot bear to say the name of their ex.
Once we couldn’t live without these individuals. Now when we see them, we’re filled with all this emotional heaviness.
Some of us wish our exes would just go away. What a dream come true if we never saw or had any dealings with them again. But because of our children we find ourselves bound to the other parent in ways we cannot escape.
Some of us wish our exes would just go away.
And we’re extremely concerned for our kids.
There seems to be no end to their troubles and complications. Our children have been deeply affected by our separation and continue to suffer.
And we’re worried about the influence of the other parent on our children. Some of us dread it when our kids are over at the other house. We disagree with the way our ex is raising our kids, how they’re being dressed, what they eat, and how they are—or are not—disciplined.
But what may bother us the most are the new lifestyles and philosophies of our exes. We want our kids to listen to us and follow our example and how we do things. Like one mom said when seeing her kids after six weeks with their father, “For the first few days I hardly knew them. Their mannerisms and the way they talked shocked me.”
And then there’s the ex’s new dating partner! Don’t get me started!
Some relationships may be fine, but for the most part the partners are worse than the ex. And we’ve seen a change come over our ex since the new relationship. Where once the ex was fairly agreeable, now there are all these walls and roadblocks. And our kids are taking the brunt of the difficulties. With the arrival of the new partner, our children are confronted with new relationships and complicated emotions. And we are powerless to do anything about it. The terrible realization hits us: Strangers are raising—or influencing—our kids!
The terrible realization hits us:
Strangers are raising—or influencing—our kids!
If your ex has left you…
You bear the terrible anguish of feeling betrayed and rejected. But you also carry the agonizing knowledge that your ex is happy with the separation, active with their new partner, loving their new lifestyles, enjoying the freedom of being a part-time parent, and living the life they say they always wanted. But you’re left to suffer terribly, to bear the humiliation of being alone, to agonize at being separated from your kids, and to carry the burden of raising them with far fewer resources and finances.
Or, if you’re the one who left the marriage or the relationship…
You may have done so because you were tired of the deceit, the lying, the irresponsibility, and the immaturity. You felt as if you were emotionally underwater with no way out.
Or, you just found somebody else. What was once a loving relationship with your former partner evaporated long ago, leaving you isolated with no prospects of future happiness.
Now, since your departure, your ex has become extremely critical, refuses to let go of the past, and continues to be at war against you—and nobody seems to take your side or even wants to hear what you have to say. Everyone is siding with your ex. Your ex’s slander and lies about you have influenced friends and relatives against you and have deeply stigmatized you. Your ex seems to be getting more benefit, more sympathy, and more favor than you.
The worst thing about your separation is that your ex has turned your children against you. But you’re also a faithful parent. You love your kids too. Yet your ex has criticized you to your kids, kept your children from you, trained them to withdraw from you, has taken every opportunity to speak against you, and has shown disgust whenever your name is mentioned. And it has worked. Now, between you and your children there is an emotional wall, with your children becoming more and more detached. What you hoped would have been an amicable separation has spun completely out of control—the other parent and your children are siding against you.
The worst thing about your separation is that your ex has turned your children against you.
For all of us…
Communicating with our ex is like communicating with an enemy. Every conversation comes with heaviness and difficulty. Our ex is non-responsive, resists our helpful comments, and continues to be insulting. Everything has become deadlocked. Just coming to a simple agreement is nearly impossible. It may take us days to recover emotionally from conversations with our ex.
The whole system of parent separation is painful. It’s like walking in lead boots. Everything associated with an ex is miserable, labor-intensive, and heavy.
I know about all of this.
I’ve personally experienced it all.
I, too, am a separated parent.
I thought I was happily married.
I never gave it a thought when my wife began working late several evenings a week. She said it was a requirement of her job.
I still didn’t get it when my wife sat me down one evening and told me that she wanted a new life. I seriously thought she was talking about remodeling the kitchen or something. She finally got through to me that the new life she wanted included everything but me.
She told me our marriage was over and that tonight she wanted us to separate.
I was in complete shock. This couldn’t be happening. Things like this happened to others but not to me. And not to us! We’ve been happily married for twelve years, right? And we have two incredible kids. How can she do this?
I never knew a human being could be in as much pain as I was that night.
I was devastated. She was overjoyed. I was forced into a world of indescribable anguish and personal loneliness. Her world was filled with exploration and thrills. She had entered some sort of heaven. I had just been thrown into hell.
She had entered some sort of heaven. I had just been thrown into hell.
During the months that followed I could not accept the fact that I was a separated parent. I was convinced that our separation was only temporary. “Tonight,” I would think, “I’ll get the call. Tonight she will certainly miss her kids and me and will want to come home.”
I became a doormat, agreeable to almost anything. I became the best ex-spouse in the world—anything to win her back.
I was also the most naïve ex-spouse in the world.
There were times my ex and I would have a great phone conversation and I would think, “This is it! She’s coming back!” But then, as it always happened, she’d ask for some favor—could I pay a certain bill or take the kids on her weekend. I, of course, would pay whatever she asked or keep the kids. We were rebuilding, right? I was very careful not to cause any problems between us.
But then, nothing. I would hear nothing from her. Later my kids would say something about mom going off with ‘Bill’ for a weekend.
My heart would break. It would take me days just to breathe normally again. Once more I was forced to realize our ‘great’ conversation was just a ploy to get what she wanted. I admit it. I realized that I was a fool and had allowed myself to be sucked in every time. But my belief in her and my belief in the restoration of our marriage continued to dominate my thinking. I’m ashamed to say that this went on for nearly two years.
But after the fortieth time (or was it the hundredth time?) I finally got the message. I finally woke up to the fact that the only reason she was ever nice was when she wanted something. I mean, what did it take? I realized at last that our relationship was really over and had been since the day she announced she wanted out. So I finally stopped believing in her. And I stopped believing she would come back.
Two years after we separated I let our marriage go. It was the most miserable day of my life.
Any positive feelings I had about her instantly evaporated.
And I was surprised how quickly I turned against her.
I loathed her. I despised her. I hated her for forcing me to be a separated parent, for making me live alone, for breaking my heart and the hearts of our children. I hated her for what I felt was her betrayal and for what I saw as her disloyalty and dishonesty. I hated her for taking advantage of my kindness and using me for the past two years.
I now believed my ex was the worst person to ever walk the face of the planet.
I wanted nothing to do with her. I never wanted to see her again or hear her name. I wished she were out of my life and out of my kids’ lives forever.
I was surprised how quickly I turned against her.
Then an idea came to me. If my children were to reject their mother, we could all be free from this woman—whom I considered evil.
Here was a real possibility and one that I began to pursue.
I was no longer a good ex-spouse.
When I remarried, my second wife and I blended our marriage with her three children and my two. Her two youngest were the same ages as my two. With both of us having primary custody of our kids they all spent a lot of time together and became best friends. And my children loved their stepmother. As far as I was concerned, my second wife quickly became the real mother to my children. She is a woman of character who loved my kids and we were one big happy family. I thought to myself: Who needed the worthless biological mother anyway?
My new-found happiness wasn’t lost on my ex.
When my kids were with their mother, I knew she had to sit through story after story about their new family and all of the wonderful things going on over at my house. Hey, I had endured years of the stories about their mother going out with all her dating partners, so I hoped her hearing my stories made her just as miserable.
It did.
Over the phone my ex screamed at me about my new family, my new home, and my ‘wonderful’ new life, accusing me of trying to cut her out of our kids’ lives. In no uncertain terms she told me that she was the only mother to our two children and that she wanted her kids back immediately.
I told her to get lost.
I asked her to tell me who has been the responsible parent the past several years, who has been faithful, and who has set a good example for our children? Not her. She barely saw them. I told her she no longer deserved to be my children’s mother. I told her she didn’t love our children. Acting the way she did, how could she? Her lifestyle I detested. I told her she was incapable of contributing anything to the well-being of our children. I told her she was replaceable and that she should be replaced.
The gloves were off.
My ex declared war.
I returned her rage with full force.
My ex declared war. I returned her rage with full force.
Our attorney met with my new wife and me at our house. After observing for himself our comfortable home, our child-friendly neighborhood, our children happily playing together, and their excellent private schools, he shook his head and said that there was no way under heaven that the courts would ever take my children from me.
Another attorney also resolutely agreed. This attorney strongly maintained that my ex’s demand for a change in custody was nothing more than frivolous. And, experts in the field basically said the same thing—that the lawsuit would be easily defeated because the court does not favor removing children from established homes where they are thriving.
So the court assigned us a mediator who was to interview my children’s mother and me, assess our situations, and make a recommendation to the court regarding custody arrangements. We also learned that even though mediators only make recommendations, they are most often accepted verbatim by the judge. The recommendations could be challenged, but to do so would require a lengthy legal process and could become extremely expensive. And, such challenges rarely succeed.
Up to this point my new family and I had been living together in a small home but we were now able with our combined incomes to purchase a larger home. We were hesitant to proceed because of the child-custody lawsuit looming over us. Yet, because of the assurances of two family attorneys and several experts we decided to go ahead with our plans to put our home up for sale and look for a new home.
A couple of months later everything came together over one weekend. On a Sunday we accepted an offer for the sale of our home and also filled out papers for the purchase of our new dream home.
But the very next day my attorney called to tell me he had just received the recommendation of the court mediator. He was so shocked he had difficulty talking. With a halting voice he told me that the mother had won. The mediator’s recommendation, he said, was that primary custody of both my children was to go to their mother.
With a halting voice he told me that the mother had won.
I sat there in shock, barely able to hold the phone. How could this mediator make such a mistake? What about all the assurances of every professional I had ever spoken with? I was overwhelmed with emotion.
With a heavy voice the attorney told me he was absolutely appalled and that in all his years of practice he had never seen a recommendation so completely unwarranted. I was at a loss for words. What could I do? He suggested that we appeal the recommendation before a judge. He said it would be expensive and take some time, but a judge would certainly issue a far more reasonable and fair judgment than the mediator had done.
I said that I was willing to begin. “Let’s fight this thing,” I replied. “Let’s begin the appeal.”
Once off the phone, I left work. I called my wife and we both wept.
I then called one of the experts who had heard the news and who was also deeply dismayed.
In his office that day I repeatedly asked him why I had lost my case. Why did my ex get custody of my children? How could she possibly have won? Hadn’t he assured me that hers was a frivolous lawsuit and that there was no way I could lose?
Finally, shaking his head in distress, he said quietly, “The mediator is unqualified.”
I said, “Unqualified? What are you talking about?”
Choosing each word very carefully he said almost in a whisper that his colleagues and he were convinced even before this mediator was assigned my case that this mediator was inexperienced. He told me that the recommendation should never have favored my ex-wife.
I was stunned.
He was disgusted.
This expert was very sorry for me, but his sorrow couldn’t hold a candle to mine. Because of this so-called inexperienced and unqualified mediator, I was about to lose my two children.
Because of this so-called inexperienced and unqualified mediator, I was about to lose my two children.
My wife and I realized that if I lost my appeal and my ex were to take my children, she would undoubtedly sue for the highest possible amount of child support. We would not be able to make payments on a new home and child support as well. So, late that evening I called our realtor, retracted our offer to purchase the new home, and cancelled the sale of our current home. Our dream home would just have to wait.
My attorney and I did file to overturn the mediator’s recommendation, but it was like walking in sand. The process took months. Finally we were scheduled to talk informally with a judge who wanted to help us reach a settlement to keep us from having to go to court.
While waiting to see the judge, my ex and her attorney sat on one side of a large lobby area while my attorney and I sat on the other side. Suddenly into the lobby came our mediator. Recognizing my ex, the mediator lit up, all smiles, and went directly over to her. They hugged each other and stood there laughing and talking together for quite some time. The mediator then looked over in my direction, and when our eyes met, stopped smiling, didn’t say a word, and walked out of the room. What was to me a clear display of favoritism and lack of professionalism was sickening.
After meeting with us and hearing our stories, the judge recommended, as a way of settlement, that my daughter would live with the mother but my son would remain with me. We would arrange child visitation so that our children would spend every weekend together.
What was to me a clear display of favoritism and lack of professionalism was sickening.
I accepted the recommendation but was profoundly distressed knowing this was the best I could do. And, I was deeply grieved. I was about to lose my precious daughter—I couldn’t imagine daily life without her.
So, Parent War 1 was over.
It didn’t take long to figure out what was going to happen next. My ex didn’t waste any time.
A few weeks after the first Parent War, my wife and I were out for a walk when suddenly a man ran toward us and, running directly into me, shoved papers into my hands. His aggressive physical actions frightened my wife. A bit shocked, we watched as he then ran across the street and hopped into a car driven by my ex-wife’s new husband and they sped away. I discovered that I had been served with court papers informing me that my ex was now suing for custody of my son.
I was absolutely devastated. We had just completed a year and a half of hostile litigation over my daughter and now we were being forced to go back into court and back into more court-ordered mediation. This time, fortunately, we had a different mediator, not the one I considered so disastrous on our first case.
My defense against my ex was I believed that she was an unfit mother, that she was the one who had abandoned the family, and that I was the one who had provided the stability my children so desperately needed following their mother’s desertion. In my mind I had a proven record but all she had were words and empty promises.
But in her favor my ex had our daughter living with her and the momentum of her past victory. As the days dragged into weeks, I was consumed by this second Parent War. I was miserable that my daughter no longer lived with me, and now I was overwhelmed with the real possibility of losing my son. Over and over I rehearsed the unfairness of it all.
I was overwhelmed with the real possibility of losing my son. Over and over I rehearsed the unfairness of it all.
At our first meeting with the mediator my ex came out swinging. The hostility she displayed was over the top. Her accusations were outrageous. She told the mediator that I had abused my children, that I was completely insensitive to their needs, and that she feared for their health and safety. She accused me of brainwashing them, teaching them strange religious practices, and indoctrinating them into seditious and subversive behaviors and thoughts.
What a pack of lies! To me the facts were clear for anyone to see: After her desertion I was the one who raised our children while she went out and played. Who got the kids ready for school? Who picked them up after school? Who helped them with their homework? Who fed them, clothed them, and took them to sports? Who was with them for months on end? Who wasn’t with them? Who was off with dating partners? Who couldn’t even maintain a regular visitation schedule to see her children?
Yes, my children went to a highly reputable private school, and yes, my children went to a neighborhood church on Sunday mornings. If that was brainwashing my kids and if that was strange religious practices, then that showed how out of touch she was. Both of my kids were well-dressed, well-behaved, and did well in school. How could she possibly accuse me of neglecting them?
The mediator just sat there looking at us. For over an hour he listened to our blistering accusations, our bitter animosity, and our complete inability to agree on anything. It was clear to him that my ex and I hated everything about each other.
Finally he spoke. Sitting up straight in his chair he pointed to a file folder about three inches thick. He told us that file contained details of our last custody battle which had lasted well over eighteen months. He was sickened by us as parents and appalled at our complete lack of ability to work together on behalf of our children. He said he was so ashamed of us that he could barely stand to be in the same room with us.
“And now look at you!” he exclaimed. “You’re going into another prolonged custody battle over your son!” Pointing his finger at both of us he told us in no uncertain terms that we were to stop this custody battle today. With as much force as he could muster he told us that the damage of a prolonged war to our children was unimaginable. He said he didn’t care whether my son lived with me or his mother but that this battle was to stop immediately and that we were going into resolution right now.
The mediator’s message was crystal clear. And I knew he was right. I looked at my ex to see her reaction. She was sitting there stone cold. She didn’t appear to be moved in the slightest by the mediator’s speech. It was very clear that I was in for another long drawn-out court battle.
It was very clear that I was in for another long drawn-out court battle.
After a long silence, with the mediator sitting there glaring at both of us, with resignation I said, “I guess it’s on me to make the decision.”
I believed the mediator. Another war would devastate our kids. But this was killing me. Was I to give up my son? How could I do such a thing? But for the sake of the kids, what else could I do?
Another long silence.
I threw in the towel.
I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. I told the mediator it was over, that she could have my son. I asked as a way of settlement that I would get the majority of the weekends each month with both children.
It was absolutely the worst day of my life.
I had thought the divorce was bad, but it was nothing compared to what was happening now. I was overcome with grief. In both custody battles I had been the one to give in. Why hadn’t I been able to go the distance in my opposition to my former wife? Why couldn’t I endure the conflicts? Why couldn’t I stand up against the recommendations of the mediators? Why couldn’t I finally get my case before a formal judge in court?
I hated the decision, I hated the court system, and I hated myself.
I asked myself, why couldn’t the mediators see through this woman? Why were they rewarding what I saw as her betrayal of my children and her selfishness? They seemed to scoff at my faithfulness and commitment to my kids. Why was my devotion to my children mocked by my ex and counted as nothing by the court? She couldn’t even fulfill her weekend visitation schedule. Why was my having to pick up her slack considered meaningless? Why didn’t anyone appreciate that I never left my kids?
I hated the decision, I hated the court system, and I hated myself.
The months following the loss of my children were sheer torment. Gone were the evenings helping with homework, gone were the meals with all of us sitting around telling stories, gone were the long periods of time just hanging out with both of them. I couldn’t wait until the weekends. Even the weekends when I didn’t have the kids, I’d drive down to watch them play sports. I did everything I could to be near them.
But things only got worse! As both of my children spent time with their mother, they began to change. Their demeanor changed. They dressed differently. They even talked differently. I wanted my children to be normal, wear normal clothes, look like normal kids, have normal friends, make good grades, and live normal lives. But their mother wouldn’t have it. As a ‘free spirit’ she made up special haircuts for my children, shaving one side of my seven-year-old daughter’s head, and dressing her in clothes I thought were inappropriate even for a twenty-year-old.
I couldn’t believe that my children were moving in such a heartbreaking direction. This wasn’t what I wanted for them, and the thought of them living the rest of their childhood away from me was unbearable.
“You might as well give up, Don,” her voice on the phone blared into my ear. It was my ex, the voice I hated. She had recently taken to taunting me. I had just been subpoenaed for a third time to appear in family court. This time my ex was after more child-support money.
Her mocking continued. “Every time we go to litigation, I win. You’ve lost both times before, and you’re going to lose again. You may as well give it up—don’t even bother. The court’s on my side.”
Her arrogance was nauseating.
Her mocking continued. “Every time we go to litigation, I win.”
I now viewed my ex as little more than human wreckage, a once-promising woman gone totally wrong.
I had bought a one-hour consultation with an attorney to discuss the latest volley from my ex. It was an hour well spent. Because it was my second wife’s income that had substantially increased in recent months and not mine, the lawyer said that the court was not likely to rule in my ex’s favor.
So I decided to save attorney’s fees by representing myself. My ex, meanwhile, retained an expensive attorney, and I soon discovered a clever way to strike back at her. I called her attorney frequently—every day, sometimes two or three times a day. If I had a question about a litigation point, I was on the phone. If the question was about some legal procedure, I made the call. If I needed financial data, a legal definition, even a recommendation for a good place for lunch, I called her attorney.
My frequent calls were costing my ex a small fortune. Payback! I had finally found some means of getting back at her, a legitimate way to hurt her. She had so dismantled me emotionally, taking away my children and now suing for more money. I had no way to oppose her, no way of causing her even a small amount of the misery she had caused me. But now I had found a way. I knew it was trivial compared to what she had done to me, but it was something. And I used it to full advantage.
I wanted to wound her. I wanted to hit her where it hurt—in this case, right in her bank account. At last, I was the one to inflict pain instead of being on the receiving end. It felt so good. And just as I suspected, the court ruled that I did not owe my ex any additional money.
I won. Ha.
It felt great. Where was her boasting now? Why wasn’t she calling me to taunt me now? Just imagining what it cost her to sue me gave me incredible delight.
All during our Parent Wars it would grind me emotionally to hear anything positive about my ex.
I couldn’t stand to hear that she was happy. And unfortunately for me, things were going well for her. She was living a pretty good life. She had remarried, had two more kids, lived in a nice home, drove a nice car, and wore nice clothes. This flew in the face of my sense of justice. How could she forsake a marriage, mess up our kids, ruin my life, and come out doing so well? To me it made values like faithfulness, honesty, commitment, and self-sacrifice meaningless.
So I recruited my children to join with me in my wars against their mother—and it worked. My critical attitudes became their critical attitudes. My objections became their objections.
Her continual failings gave me the opportunity to encourage my children’s criticisms and growing disrespect for her. When she was late, or didn’t do what she promised to do, or neglected to help them with their homework, or forgot an orthodontia appointment, my kids heard about it. I was also helpful to point out additional irresponsible behaviors they didn’t even know about.
My children would voice their complaints to their mother causing huge arguments between them—even between the mother and stepfather.
I was on to something good.
Her continual failings gave me the opportunity to encourage my children’s criticisms and growing disrespect for her.
Even the media helped me out.
What movies don’t include stories of unfaithfulness and deceit? And what week goes by without a celebrity or sports figure leaving his or her spouse for someone else? Before me were unlimited examples to remind my children about their mother.
“Do you know that woman left her husband for another man? I wonder how her kids feel.”
“She says she’s free to explore new relationships. I wonder what her husband and kids think?”
“Where did she get all that money? Look at how she’s dressed. I bet she spends all her child support money on herself. It’s supposed to be for her kids.”
My children knew who I was talking about. But hey, if the shoe fits….
I also opposed their mother in more subtle ways: through silence or just changing the subject.
When I would pick up my kids from their mom’s house, they’d be all excited to tell me about events of the past week. But I, of course, cut off all discussions:
“Hey dad, we went camping last weekend. It was a blast.” Silence.
“Dad, we got a new kitty last week. She’s so cute.” I didn’t want to know.
“Dad. You won’t believe this. Last week we won a gold medal in ice skating and mom and I climbed Mt. Everest.”
“Yeah, okay. Put your backpacks upstairs in your bedrooms and come down for dinner.”
Was I harsh, angry, and somewhat out of control? Were my actions toward my ex disturbing?
At the time I believed every opposition and every negative opinion I had toward my ex was completely justified. In fact, I felt it was wrong of me to do anything other than fully oppose that woman.
My thirteen-year-old daughter climbed into the passenger seat to begin her weekend with me and began sobbing. I asked her what was wrong.
She said, “My stepdad scares me. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me.”
I immediately reacted. “Has he ever hurt you?”
“No. But he makes us stand at attention like we’re in the Army or something, and screams at my brother and me with his face right in our faces. All we are allowed to say is ‘Yes sir.’ It scares me so much. And then he got so mad at me that he threw a table against some chairs and broke everything. Dad, I’m scared of him. I’m scared he might hurt me.”
“My stepdad scares me. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me.”
I had known from the time he moved in with my children’s mother that the stepdad was hard on my kids. I had heard from my son how he would become intensely angry with him and his sister, regularly lining them up and yelling at them. My kids had said they often had to tiptoe around their stepfather and avoid being in the same room with him because of his explosive anger.
But now this stepdad had crossed the line.
Threatening my children and breaking things in front of them was outrageous. How dare he treat my son and daughter like that! How dare their mother allow her husband to frighten my children!
It would become our fourth Parent War. And this time I was the one to bring it on.
I filed for a change in custody and believed I had an airtight case. Finally I could prove what was really going on over at that other household.
Because of her age—thirteen—my daughter could clearly describe in detail the treatment she and her brother were subjected to by their stepdad. I was convinced that all she had to do was to tell the court what she had told me and a change of primary custody was guaranteed.
I assured my daughter that she was going to soon speak with someone who was really nice, and I emphasized that it was important for her to tell this person everything she told me.
“Just tell the truth,” I would tell my daughter. “Just tell the mediator how your stepfather screams at you and your brother with his face inches from yours, how he breaks things in front of you to scare you, that you are afraid for your own personal safety, and that your mother stands by doing nothing to help.”
My daughter was completely agreeable and assured me she would be up-front and honest with the mediator.
I was overjoyed. No way was I going to lose this case.
I couldn’t help daydreaming about my kids back home with me. Once I got my daughter back, the door would be open to pursue getting my son. It was thrilling to me that I was on the verge of having my kids once again living with me.
Finally the day arrived to meet with the court mediator—another mediator, new to us—who planned to speak to all of us individually: first my daughter, then her mother, then me.
My daughter arrived with her mother and we all sat together in the waiting room. Not a word was spoken between us. Glancing at the mother I thought to myself, “Lady, you’re going down. The truth will now be told about you and your husband’s atrocious treatment of my children. I hope they’re taken away from you and you never see them again.”
“Lady, you’re going down. The truth will now be told…”
My daughter was called in first. The interview lasted twenty minutes and then she was asked to go sit in a separate room by herself. My ex was called in next. After twenty minutes with the mediator she was asked to join our daughter in that same private room. I was left alone in the waiting room.
Now it was my turn.
I was shocked at the mediator’s abruptness. Her voice and body language clearly communicated her disgust with me. I felt as if I were the one on trial. She asked me why I brought on the lawsuit. I told her about my daughter’s difficulties with her stepfather and that she was afraid for her personal safety. Standing up, the mediator said that the meeting was over and that I was to have a seat back in the waiting room to wait for her written recommendation.
Back in the waiting room I sat there alone and dumbfounded.
My heart was on the ground.
Why the abruptness? Why the hostility against me? Why twenty minutes with my daughter, then twenty minutes with her mother, but only minutes with me?
Why the abruptness? Why the hostility against me?
The mediator didn’t take long. Without saying a word she walked into the waiting room, handed me her recommendation, turned her back on me, and left.
Her evaluation said that my custody suit against my ex was frivolous, that the problems my daughter was experiencing at her mom’s house were not because of my ex or her husband but because of me—that I was the troublemaker, that primary custody would remain with the mother, and that the visitation I currently had with both my daughter and son was to be cut in half effective immediately.
I couldn’t believe what I was reading.
I was the troublemaker? My complaints against the stepdad and my daughter’s mother were frivolous? My actions were distressing my daughter and son? And my visitation was now to be cut in half?
How incomprehensibly wrong. What an outrage. The injustice was unbelievable.
I was trying to save my daughter from what I believed was an unsafe household—yet I was the one being punished and the one to be silenced.
I was trying to save my daughter from what I believed was an unsafe household—yet I was the one being punished…
As I continued thinking about the completely backward recommendation of the mediator, I came to the realization that my daughter must have changed her story.
I became convinced that she had clammed up. If my daughter had told the mediator the truth, there was no way the mediator would have ruled against me.
And, I later learned that this was exactly what happened.
My daughter’s interview with the mediator went something like this:
The mediator asked my daughter how things were going over at her mother’s house.
“Fine,” she replied.
“Are there any difficulties between you and your stepfather?”
“No.”
“Do your mother and stepfather seem to have any problems?”
“No.”
“Would you prefer to live with your father?”
“No.”
“Is it true that your stepdad has broken things in front of you and scared you?”
“No.”
It would be three years later, during a conversation with my son, when I would learn the awful and heartbreaking reasons why my daughter changed her story and why she didn’t tell the truth.
After the mediator’s recommendation, in the car back to her mother’s house, my daughter’s mother told our daughter I was mad at her for betraying me and that I didn’t want to ever see her again.
My daughter was already feeling terribly guilty over her silence with the mediator. She knew she had let me down and knew that she was the reason why I had lost my case. Now, believing her mother’s lies about me, my daughter was convinced that she had caused me to hate her.
Throughout her life I had been my daughter’s rock and support, but now with our relationship in shreds, it literally destroyed her emotionally.
Now, believing her mother’s lies about me, my daughter was convinced that she had caused me to hate her.
But this was only the beginning of her hardships.
Emboldened by their success in court, even more pressure was put on my daughter by her mother and stepfather. My daughter said that when lining her up to be punished her stepfather would mock her and yell into her face, “Are you going to tell your father? Are you going to run off to your dad? He lost in court and you have nowhere else to go. He doesn’t even want to see you.” And her mother made sure she never forgot that she had betrayed her to me.
So here was my daughter, just a young teenager, isolated and cornered, knowing she had failed me in court, jeered at by her stepfather, belittled by her mother, and convinced that she had lost me as a father.
My lawsuit put my daughter in a box from which she could not escape. No matter what she said she would have betrayed a parent. If she had told the truth, she would have betrayed her mother. If she didn’t tell the truth, she would have betrayed me.
The expectations put on my daughter were too much for her. She was only thirteen years old but expected to respond in a way that would have been difficult for a thirty-year-old. The lawsuit set her up for the worst kind of failure, a failure that divided her from her mother and me, and a failure that tore directly into her soul.
So in a very sick sense our work was complete.
My ex and I had taken a precious, innocent, trusting, beautiful young girl, our only daughter, and hollowed her out.
Gone were my daughter’s childlike exuberance and confidence and innocence; in their place were fear, confusion, rejection, and shame.
My ex and I had taken a precious, innocent, trusting, beautiful young girl, our only daughter, and hollowed her out.
By constantly slandering each other and hounding our daughter to take sides, her mother and I had torn away the very fabric of her young life, decimating her ability to be normal and innocent. All she wanted was to live with the assurance that she was deeply loved by both parents, and to love both of her parents. Instead we forced this sweet thirteen-year-old into the dark side of an adult world—a world of pain and brokenness, hatred and animosity, bitterness and treachery—a world in which mature adults can barely function, let alone a young girl still in her formative years.
It was all too much for her. The very two individuals who should have given her security and confidence removed it from her. My daughter spun off completely, turning against everything she once valued. Because she saw herself as a failure—believing she was a disappointment to her mother and me—she decided to avoid both of us. She rarely stayed at her mom’s home, living instead with friends, out all hours of the day and night, and to the mom’s delight staying as far away from me as possible. When I’d come pick up my son, my daughter was conveniently absent.
I saw her sporadically over the next couple of years. It was heartbreaking to watch her behavior go downhill. And, the more my daughter’s behavior declined the more she withdrew from me. Finally, several months went by in which I didn’t see her at all.
The next time I saw her, I would barely recognize her.
The next time I saw her, I would barely recognize her.
By this time I was determined to never set foot in a courtroom against my ex again. Litigation against her was futile and I was done. Every encounter I had with mediators was disastrous—every time they bought completely into what the mother had to say against me. It was hopeless. I had thrown in the towel and accepted the fact that my children were with their mother until adulthood.
But my kids had other plans.
My phone rang showing a number I didn’t recognize. I answered and I heard my daughter’s pleading voice, “Dad, I need help.” I was both shocked to hear her voice and thrilled that she was calling me. But the tone of her voice told me that she was in serious trouble.
Without waiting for my reply she continued, “I can’t live there anymore. I just can’t live there.” By ‘there,’ of course, she meant her mother’s house. I quickly learned that during the months I had not seen her, her behavior toward her mother and stepfather had changed dramatically. Instead of being passive in the face of her stepfather’s tirades, she had begun fighting back. All the frustration and bitterness and anger inside my daughter were released on her mother and her stepdad—scream for scream, hate for hate. And now, she had run away.
I drove immediately to pick her up at her friend’s house where she was staying.
“Dad, I have nowhere to go,” said my daughter when she got into my car. “I can’t go home to mom’s house. I can’t do it anymore. I hate it there. They constantly criticize me and yell at me. My stepdad’s worse than ever. Most of the time he won’t say a word to me but just walks around acting angry and slamming things. And if he does speak, he screams at me. He rages at me all the time and I hate it. It’s the same way with mom. The only time she speaks to me is to yell at me, and she tells me that I’m worthless and will never make her happy. Dad, it’s so terrible at my mom’s house I had to run away. But now my girlfriend’s parents are kicking me out and I have nowhere else to go.”
As my daughter was talking to me through her tears, I could barely concentrate on what she was saying because I was so shocked at her appearance. Was this really my daughter? It sounded like her. But it didn’t look like her. Yes, this was my daughter, but what had happened to her? Look at her hair. Look how she is dressed. Listen to how she talks!
I decided to take her to my home so that we could sort things out, but I knew this would put me in serious trouble with her mom. If the mom knew I was harboring my daughter, she would pursue me as a criminal in court. There was no way I could keep my daughter with me. At my house we both agreed that the only thing we could do was take her back to her mom’s. She sat there resigned to her fate. She knew how she would be treated once she got home. I now had a glimpse of my daughter’s world, and it was too horrible to grasp. I was absolutely unable to help her. It would be futile to try again in the court.
I now had a glimpse of my daughter’s world, and it was too horrible to grasp.
When we arrived at the house, I could see her mother’s fury and hatred toward me—and toward our daughter.
Through my daughter I learned that her mother and stepfather could not stand the fact that I had again become aware of problems in their home. It made them insanely furious at her. And she would have to pay the price.
“Get inside this instant,” the mother said to our daughter.
Like a lamb led to slaughter she entered the house. Her mother wouldn’t even look at me. She just slammed the front door.
My daughter had just re-entered hell.
My daughter had just re-entered hell.
A month later my phone rang.
I looked to see who was calling and suddenly a black cloud came over me.
It was my ex.
Why was she calling? I hated that woman.
All she said was that our daughter had run away again and that this time nobody knew where she was. Then she hung up.
I sat there stunned, staring at my phone.
So that was it. My poor daughter. She had run away for good and nobody, not even her friends, knew where she had gone.
I called everyone I could think of who knew her. In time I learned that she might be staying at a house in a city several hours away. With further research I got a sketchy address and I drove to that city’s local police department. I informed them that my daughter, a minor child, had run away from home but we had an address where she might be staying.
The police went to the address but could not find her. Impressing upon the occupants the seriousness of their search they managed to get other names and addresses and went to those places informing everyone that if anything happened to this young girl, they could all be held responsible.
The next day the police called and told me that my daughter had walked into the police station and turned herself in. Apparently, threats of prosecution to those people had worked.
But when I arrived at the police station to pick her up, I found out she had been transferred to the State Suicide Prevention Center for troubled teens in another city.
The officer told me that because the mother had primary custody, he intended to release her to her mother, but that my daughter had adamantly refused. The officer said they didn’t know what to do with her. They couldn’t hold her as a delinquent as she hadn’t broken any laws. So he told her that the only way for them not to release her to her mother was if she told them she was suicidal. If she was suicidal, they could send her to a locked-down institution for suicidal teens where she would at least be taken care of until things could be figured out. So she told them she was suicidal and that’s why they transferred her there.
The officer said to me, “Mr. Partridge, may I strongly suggest you figure something out for your daughter because as it stands right now she absolutely will not go back to her mother’s house.”
My daughter wasn’t suicidal and never has been. But she had bought herself some time.
I found out she had been transferred to the State Suicide Prevention Center.
Now a temporary resident at the Suicide Prevention Center and shielded from any intimidation and threats from her mother and stepfather, my daughter found the strength to oppose her mother. She demanded to be released to me, which the counselors were agreeable to do.
According to my daughter, this sent her mother on a rampage. Recognizing the real possibility that she was going to lose custody of her daughter, she criticized and belittled me to the counselors and psychologists. Her mother could not stand the thought that she might come live with me. But my daughter remained adamant. She told the counselors that she absolutely refused to ever again live at her mother’s house.
In the end the Suicide Prevention counselors ruled that my daughter would be released to me freely, without conditions. So that was it. Parent War Five was over. After all those painful years my daughter was finally coming home.
But who was actually coming to live in my home? We were to find out soon enough.
But who was actually coming to live in my home? We were to find out soon enough.
My daughter’s world at her mother’s house had been one of anger, hostility, and constant criticism. Tensions and stress made up her daily life. Attendance at school was a joke and homework non-existent. Life for my daughter was days and nights out with friends. All her teenage life she was a night owl, staying up until two or three in the morning and not waking up until the afternoon. Self-discipline, self-control, and self-restraint were foreign concepts.
Life at our home was the exact opposite, revolving around school, homework, and family and friends. All our children did well academically and got along socially.
Enter my daughter. Our lives must have been incomprehensible to her. Looking back I’m surprised she lasted the two months.
It was too much for her. She couldn’t manage normal life. She had been too damaged. Within her was a raging war that demanded complete autonomy.
Within weeks after moving in with us she was sneaking out of the house at night. Because she was now sixteen, I found her a part-time job but she soon quit. After getting into trouble at school she stopped attending. Finally she just stopped coming home. The only thing that worked for my daughter was to hang out with friends as troubled as she.
Within weeks after moving in with us she was sneaking out of the house at night.
So, basically self-emancipated, my daughter managed to arrange for herself places to stay, attended various schools, and subsisted by working part-time jobs.
Contact with my daughter again became sporadic.
Could things get any worse? What happened next shocked everyone. This time, it involved my son.
I was upstairs in my home getting ready to drive my son back to his mom’s house. He was thirteen years old, halfway through the eighth grade. His weekend visit with me was coming to an end, so I called downstairs to tell him to get into the car.
Instead, he came upstairs into my bedroom, sat down, and startled me by calmly telling me that he wasn’t going home, that he wouldn’t be living with his mother any longer, and that he was now going to live permanently with me.
I looked at him trying to absorb what he had just said. I asked him what he was talking about.
He again told me in a matter-of-fact voice that he was now at my house and wouldn’t be living with his mother any longer.
He again told me in a matter-of-fact voice that he was now at my house and wouldn’t be living with his mother any longer.
I asked him if his mother knew anything about this and he said she had no idea and that he would let me tell her.
I asked him why he wanted to leave his mom. My son told me that the problem wasn’t his mom—that he didn’t mind living with her at all. The problem, he said, was his stepfather. He couldn’t go through another baseball season with this man. He was impossible to be around during Little League baseball. The stepfather constantly criticized and yelled at him before, during, and after games.
I already knew the stepfather was a zealous baseball fan and a self-appointed coach to my son. But I had no idea of the extreme criticism and yelling and intense pressure he had put on the young boy. My young son couldn’t throw or hit a baseball without facing his stepdad’s tirades on how badly he had played—and all this had gone on since he was seven years old.
My son told me that a few weeks ago his stepdad told him to get his mitt and go outside to play catch with him. Dutifully he got his mitt and ball and they began playing catch. Once again my son was forced to endure the barrage of anger and frustration of his stepfather for not throwing the ball perfectly. He could never throw it hard enough or accurately enough to please that man.
It was the last straw for my thirteen-year-old. He decided he was not going through another season with his stepdad and that when he came to my house for one of our weekends, he would never return to his mom’s house again.
I could see this wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction on his part, that he had spent a great deal of time thinking about when and how to make his move to my house.
But all this was news to me. I needed some time to think this through.
I tried to process how the move could happen. I told him that maybe I could talk to his mom and we could work something out, especially with his stepdad. Maybe we could get through this baseball season so that he could finish eighth grade down at his mom’s house and then make the move up to my house to attend high school.
My son said emphatically, “Dad, you can’t say one word to mom and then leave me down there. That would be impossible. Remember what happened to my sister.”
I just stared at my son blankly. I asked him, “What do you mean? What happened to your sister?”
He looked at me and realized that I didn’t know.
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know what mom did to my sister. Remember the court battle you had with mom years ago over trying to get my sister to live with you? And that she wouldn’t tell the court mediator what was really going on at our house? You don’t know why she caved in and didn’t say anything, do you?”
I said no.
“Once mom learned that she wanted to live with you and that you were going to go to court to get her, both mom and my stepdad put her through weeks of screaming and threats. I’m not kidding you, Dad. It was horrible. The first few days it was solid screaming, then after that total silence, a few days later threats by them to throw her out of the house for good, then another few days of putting on her all this guilt about how she let them down. By the time my sister talked to the court mediator, she was terrified of what they would do to her. So do you know what she said to the court mediator? She was so scared of mom that she even talked against you.”
My son continued, “I saw what happened to my sister, how mom and my stepdad forced her to go back on everything she told you. I watched what they did to her and I knew that when the time came for me to live with you, I could never, ever tell them.
“Dad, that’s why if I go back down there tonight you can’t say anything to mom. If it came out I wanted to live with you, you don’t know what they’d do to me. I couldn’t take it.”
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know what mom did to my sister.”
I just sat there in shock.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had just learned for the first time why, three years earlier, my daughter had backed off and said virtually nothing to the court mediator. Her mother and stepfather had ganged up on my then thirteen-year-old, harassing her and threatening her until she was forced to recant her story, crumbling before the court. My poor daughter was forced to bear alone this incredible emotional pressure, and I had been powerless to help. I never knew. From what my son was telling me, I couldn’t believe that any parent could be so cruel and destructive toward her own children.
In a moment of anguish I asked myself, What kind of animals were raising my kids?
And here was my young son, figuring that the only way to rid himself of another grueling baseball season with his stepfather was to make the announcement at my home, where he could be protected from his mother’s and stepfather’s anger and wrath.
In a moment of anguish I asked myself, What kind of animals were raising my kids?
My son said that since he is now living with me he would leave it to me to call his mother and tell her the news.
I told him that the phone call would not go so well.
I told him his mother would go absolutely crazy and come at me with every lawyer she could find. I had lost every custody battle we ever had and was certain to lose this one, too. I told him that his sister had never recovered from that terrible court battle and that I didn’t want the same thing to happen to him. I promised him I wouldn’t breathe a word of our conversation to his mother. I appealed again to my son that maybe I could talk to his stepfather and try to work something out with him. But now it was getting late and he needed to get into the car.
He said to me that he wouldn’t get in the car—that he wasn’t going back.
I told him that he had to go back.
I told him to get into the car or else I’d carry him into the car. Either way, I said, he was going down to his mom’s house. He said to me that yes, I could make him get into the car but when he got to his mother’s house, in the middle of the night he’d sneak out and walk the forty miles back to my house. He asked me if I wanted him hiking all night, especially through some of the cities he’d have to go through to get to my home?
I said no.
He said if he was picked up and forced to return to his mom’s house he’d just run away again the next night—would I want that?
“What about the court?” I asked him. “What are you going to do about them telling you where you have to live?”
But with a wave of his hand he dismissed any discussion about the court. He said the mediators or judges could make all the decisions they wanted about where he was going to live, but where were they in the middle of the night? At midnight he’d sneak out and walk the forty miles to my house.
He repeated that there was no way he was going through another baseball season with his out-of-control stepfather. He said he was going to live with me and that there was nothing anyone could do about it.
I lamented that a phone call to his mother would precipitate a full-scale nuclear war.
But he just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t care less. Dealing with his mom and the mediators and the court was my problem. As far as he was concerned, he was now living permanently at my house and would leave the details to me.
So we sat there staring at each other. Neither of us said a word.
All my son could think about was the relief of never having to play baseball around his stepdad again.
All I could think about was the upcoming Nuclear Parent War.
I lamented that a phone call to his mother would precipitate a full-scale nuclear war.
I shuddered at the thought of the incredible hardship we were all about to endure, only to certainly lose again. And the expense. I could see myself spending several thousand dollars, with the likely prospect of the vicious battle destroying my son. As I looked into my son’s eyes I could see that he was a very, very determined young man. But would he be able to sustain his decision after what we were about to go through?
I was stuck. Once again I would be relying on the words and promises of a minor child—this time my son, who was only thirteen years old.
After a long period of silence with us just sitting there looking at each other finally I said okay, I’d make the phone call.
This was going to be the phone call of the century, with my son’s emotional health completely on the line.
As I picked up the phone, I knew I was about to unleash a full-scale nuclear war with no prisoners.
And the phone call proved to be everything I imagined—only worse.
Once his mother learned what the call was about, nobody would believe the hatred and venom that poured into the phone. What she said should never be said, not even to one’s worst enemy. Saying she loathed me, despised me, and absolutely hated me would be mild terms for what I had to listen to. She was literally screaming at me. Her words and the volume of her words could not describe her bitter hatred toward me. She was convinced that I was pure evil. In her mind I had put our son up to this, that I had brainwashed him, and that he was just a pawn in my lifelong plan to remove him from her custody.
Once his mother learned what the call was about, nobody would believe the hatred and venom that poured into the phone.
Would she be receptive to hearing anything about our son’s difficulties with his stepfather, about the daily barrage of criticism that was injuring our son emotionally? Not in the slightest. She accused me of coercing my son, swaying his young mind, and forcing him against his will to remain at my house.
She said in the clearest terms possible that if her son wasn’t home by the scheduled time, she would have me thrown in jail. And she was not kidding. I told her he had refused to get into the car, and she all but spit at me over the phone. She mocked me. She knew I was quite capable of getting my son into the car and this proved to her that it was me, not my son, who was separating him from her. It was either obey the court or she would personally see me in jail.
She told me I had pulled this stunt with my daughter and was now doing the same thing with my son. She reminded me that I lost in court and would lose again. Only this time, she told me, she would see to it that I never saw him again, that if I didn’t return my son immediately, she would not stop until all visitation privileges were removed and she had permanent custody.
She then demanded that I put my son on the phone. She wanted to hear this so-called decision of his in his own words. Reluctantly I called my son up to my room to speak to his mother.
The phone call lasted less than a minute as my young thirteen-year-old told his mother, in halting words, that he was going to stay with me and couldn’t live with her any longer. Then he became very quiet as he listened to her. I watched helplessly as he nearly folded in half physically. He was bent over crying, overcome with emotion. I was convinced she was destroying our son with her venomous words. I lunged forward and grabbed the phone. I was shocked beyond belief at the force her words had on my precious son. I privately swore to myself that as long as my son was in my home, he would never speak to his mother again. She had lost all rights to this boy.
Back on the phone she told me one last time that she would see her son within an hour or else I would go to jail.
I ignored her threats. In fact, my son remained at my house that entire next week. It was that following Saturday morning I was served with a restraining order demanding that if I didn’t return him immediately, I would be arrested and charged with child abduction and contempt of court.
I knew what she wanted. I was certain that she wanted her son back so that she could subject him to her dominance and pressure. She had forced our daughter to back down and was confident, I believed, that she could do the same with him. It must have infuriated her that my son was with me, making her powerless to bend his will to hers. With the restraining order I believed she was assured she would get her son back that day.
I suspected my ex and her attorney intentionally served the restraining order on Saturday morning, knowing that I had no way to retain an attorney. Meanwhile I could be arrested that very day.
I knew what we had to do. For the emotional safety of my son, we ran.
I knew what we had to do. For the emotional safety of my son, we ran.
I threw some clothes into the Jeep and told my son to get his stuff together—we were going for a drive. I asked him not to ask me any questions—that we were going to take some time off and spend the next few days together.
So we left town. Nobody knew where we were, not even my wife. It was Super Bowl weekend and my son and I watched the game with a couple of hundred other people in the huge lobby of some hotel in some remote town. That Monday my wife took off from work and retained an attorney. She told the attorney the entire story of my son—about his stepfather and mother, what they had done to my daughter, and what they would do to my son if he went back to live with them. Believing every word my wife said and believing that my son’s safety was on the line, this attorney immediately countered my ex’s restraining order with one of his own, demanding that my son be allowed to stay with me until emergency court mediation—to which the judge agreed.
So with great relief my son and I were able to come home.
But I was already anticipating what would happen in emergency court mediation two days later.
From past experience I knew that mediation was going to completely favor my ex and go one hundred percent against me. But what else could I do? Here I was again, totally reliant on a child to do his part and say what he had to say. I knew that what I had to say would be considered meaningless by the mediator and by the judge.
So when the court date arrived, my son and I walked into the mouth of the beast.
My wife and her son, Matt, my son’s older stepbrother, came along for moral support.
So when the court date arrived, my son and I walked into the mouth of the beast.
I could have written the script.
Just like every other court mediator, this one spent almost all of her time with my ex and her attorney, less time with my son, and virtually no time at all with my attorney and me. We barely sat down when the interview was over. It was also no surprise when the mediator recommended that my son be returned immediately to his mother’s home. The court’s overall rationale was that no thirteen-year-old should be allowed to bully the court into determining where he was going to live. And that’s basically what my son was doing.
The irony of the situation was that, apart from my son’s desperate situation, I actually agreed with the rationale of the court.
It was also clear to me that the mediator firmly believed that my son had been coached by me in his opposition to his stepfather and that I had maliciously influenced him against his mother. Again, the mediator resolutely determined that I was the trouble-maker, forcing my son to live with me out of vengeance against his mother.
After the mediator issued her terse recommendation favoring my ex, we all went before a family court judge for final determination. I sat with my attorney on one side of the courtroom while my son’s mother and her attorney sat on the other side. My son, his stepbrother Matt, and my wife remained downstairs in the court holding room. On the stand the court mediator vehemently objected to the lack of due process and the clear fact that both the mother and the court were being bullied by me and my young son. She repeated that my son should be returned to his mother immediately.
The judge then turned to me and asked me if I had any objection to the mediator’s recommendation. I told the judge that because of problems down at his mother’s house my son refused to live with her any longer. I told him that if my son was forced to go to his mother’s house, he had told me he would sneak out in the middle of the night and hike the forty miles to my house and that I did not want that to happen.
She mocked me by telling the judge that all the so-called problems at her home were simply fabrications of my imagination.
The judge then listened to my son’s mother bitterly accuse me of brainwashing my son and of the way I grossly undermined her authority. She mocked me by telling the judge that all the so-called problems at her home were simply fabrications of my imagination. She then emphatically reminded the court of our past court cases and the fact that I was the one who constantly lost. The judge then turned his attention directly toward me, imploring me to allow my son to go back to his mother’s house. He asked me why everything had to be so sudden? Why did my son suddenly have to make the move in the middle of a school year? Why couldn’t he finish out the year at his mom’s house? Why couldn’t we go through the standard legal process? And why couldn’t my son make the move to my house over the summer months?
The judge, fully agreeing with the court mediator and the mother, was clearly displeased with me. To move my son in haste would be, in the judge’s viewpoint, disruptive to his schooling and home life.
What more could I say? I had already told the mediator and the judge that my son was having severe difficulties with his stepfather and, if forced to remain with his mother, he would run away. Would the judge believe me if I told him I was sure that if my son went back to his mother’s house, his mother would try to destroy him the way she had my daughter? His mother would laugh off my ‘imaginations,’ deny any wrongdoing, and point out that I was already a documented troublemaker.
I had already told the mediator and the judge that my son was having severe difficulties with his stepfather and, if forced to remain with his mother, he would run away.
By this time I was pretty disgusted with the mediator and the judge. It was clear that nothing I could say was going to alter the direction the court was taking.
All I could do was trust that my son had the fortitude to drive the issue. I had done what I could for him and, as expected, failed. My son started this litigation and now he would have to see it to its conclusion. Everything now fell on him.
Judgment came down strongly against me. The boy was to be immediately returned to his mother. Of course, I wasn’t surprised. My ex sat there glaring at me, hating me, hating everything about me. I knew she wasn’t going to let this go. I knew there would be future battles for change in custody with me having as little time with my son as possible. I had begun this legal battle and she was going to finish it.
Judgment came down strongly against me.
Two sheriff’s deputies came into the courtroom to wait for orders to escort my son from the waiting room downstairs to his mother’s car. The judge turned to me as he was about to leave the courtroom and once again implored me to let the boy go back to his mother’s home. I shrugged my shoulders and told the judge that I wouldn’t try to stop my son from going to his mother’s house.
It was now after 5 P.M., and court was adjourned. The judge rose and left the courtroom through the door behind the bench.
So that was it.
Several minutes passed and we were all standing around in the courtroom signing some papers when suddenly the door behind the bench opened and the judge, astonishing us all, hurriedly buttoning his court robes, re-entered the courtroom. He asked if everyone was still present. As we were all there, including the two deputies, he finished buttoning his robe, took his seat, and brought the court back in session. He then looked at me and asked if I had any objection to my son living with his mother. I told him my son had some serious objections. But I would ask him again to go back to his mother’s house.
The judge, with honest emotion, implored me to let the boy return to his mother’s home. He then again adjourned the court and left.
I felt sick to my stomach in anticipation of what my young son was about to endure that evening. Once alone with his mother and stepfather, empowered by this latest court victory, I knew they would tear into him that night with a vengeance, decimating him emotionally, just as they had done to my daughter.
The time was now about 5:30 P.M., and it was dark outside. We were all still in the courtroom waiting on paper work when again the judge burst through the door, again hastily buttoning his robe, again surprising us all. We all just stood there without a sound and watched. The judge ascertained that everyone was still in the court room, asked everyone to be seated, and once again formally opened the proceedings. My attorney and I looked at each other bewildered at the actions of the judge. Had anyone ever seen this type of behavior before?
The judge looked directly at me and asked, “Where’s the boy?”
The judge looked directly at me and asked, “Where’s the boy?”
I told him that my son was in the special waiting room downstairs, and the judge ordered one of the deputies to go get him. We all sat there, including the judge, for several long minutes, in dead silence, as we waited for my son to be escorted into the courtroom. Within a few minutes the large doors opened and he appeared with the sheriff. The judge asked him to approach the bench. The deputy remained by the door while my son walked down the long aisle to stand before the towering judgment seat.
All eyes were on my son, so young and so all alone.
The judge asked him to come up the side steps and stand next to him. My son walked up and stood beside the judge. Then the judge stood and the two of them disappeared through the back door. It was quite a sight to see this huge six-foot eight-inch judge, his height exaggerated by his long robe, towering over my son as they left the courtroom. Nobody moved a muscle or said a word. We all sat stunned and silent. After several long minutes the door opened and out they came.
With my son standing beside him, the judge seated himself and gave this order. He said, “The boy is to go home tonight with his father. Both the mother and father, with their attorneys, are to appear before me in my chambers at 10 A.M. tomorrow.” Down went the gavel.
With that he left the bench and didn’t return.
My attorney just sat there for a long time and didn’t move. He finally said that he had been practicing family court law for two decades and had never seen what had just happened. After a stinging rebuke from the court mediator against my son and me, after caustic remarks by my ex, after judgment had been issued from the bench against me—twice—the judge had reappeared a third time to speak with my son privately, then reversed his order, ignoring the mediator’s recommendations, ruling that my son was to go home that night with me. My attorney was absolutely mystified.
My attorney was absolutely mystified.
Later in the car, I couldn’t believe that my son and I were going home together. My son, my precious son. He, of course, seemed indifferent to the whole thing. I didn’t question him that night about his conversation with the judge. The only thing he said was that he thought the judge was pretty cool.
The following day, with my son and Matt and my wife once again waiting downstairs in the court holding room, the mother and I and our attorneys went into the judge’s chambers. Sitting behind his large desk he told us that in his eight years on the bench he had interviewed only two kids, my son being one of them. He said he was deeply impressed with my son. Usually people, particularly children, were intimidated by his huge size, but this young boy stood before him without fear, looking directly into his eyes, and calmly answered all the questions put before him. He was amazed and very pleased with the way my son handled himself. In the end the judge told us that he was going to do something very unorthodox. His ruling was that my son was to live with me. He knew that this was sudden and not the usual practice, but in his opinion it was the best solution.
I sat there as if in a dream. My son, my dear son, was finally coming to live with me. After all these years he was finally leaving that household that was filled with anger and criticism and hostility.
But what happened next completely shocked everyone, especially my attorney. The judge ordered that not only was my son to live with me but that any visitation schedule with his mother would be put into the young boy’s own hands—the hands of a thirteen-year-old. My boy alone was to determine visitation with his mother. A special counselor would be appointed to meet with him to make the necessary arrangements.
With this judgment we left the courthouse. My attorney couldn’t believe it. He told me that he had never seen control of visitation given over to a minor child.
So, Parent War 6 was over. My son finally came home.
Under the circumstances we were not anxious for him to see his mother. The special counselor simply told us to get in touch with him when we were ready to set up visitation. But no phone call was ever made. Nor did we try to contact his mother. And she never called us. As far as I was concerned it would be fine if we never saw that woman again.
As far as I was concerned it would be fine if we never saw that woman again.
And I made good on my word. With my daughter out on her own and my son now living with me, we ceased all contact with that other household. Our association with her was finished.
For the first time in over a decade, my ex-wife was completely out of my life. Nothing could have pleased me more.
Unlike my daughter who could not integrate into our family because of serious emotional damage, my son integrated quite well. He quickly settled into our family and school, made great friends, and excelled both academically and in sports.
I saw my daughter sporadically, and when we did get together my heart broke for her. Out on her own she was grossly ill-equipped to face the requirements of adulthood. She survived on part-time jobs, remained uninterested in learning a trade, and barely scraped by. Her life was spent hanging out with friends. Our relationship was fairly good, but her relationship with her mother was tumultuous, on again/off again. And, she had nothing to do with her stepdad.
Even though I was pleased beyond words to have my ex out of our lives, I was incensed by what I saw as her complete lack of sensitivity toward our son. In all the ensuing years that he lived with me, she rarely called him or tried to see him. I couldn’t imagine a parent just cutting off one of her children. She knew about his success in academics and sports because my daughter would inform her. And even the rare times my son would see his mother (maybe a couple of times a year) she never asked about any of his interests or accomplishments.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved the fact that we had practically zero contact with this woman. But I also felt for my son. I knew he felt abandoned by his own mother and that when they did see each other she didn’t treat him very well.
Once when I was speaking with my daughter about her brother’s and mother’s rocky relationship my daughter agreed with me, then added in an off-handed way, assuming I knew what she was talking about, “Yeah, like that one Christmas at Grandma’s. That was the worst.”
“What Christmas?” I asked her. “What are you talking about?”
My daughter said, “You know, that Christmas day at Grandma’s.”
“No, I don’t. What Christmas day?”
In disbelief, she replied, “You never heard about that Christmas? Oh my gosh, Dad. It was terrible. It was one of the worst days ever.”
“You never heard about that Christmas? Oh my gosh, Dad. It was terrible. It was one of the worst days ever.”
She said, “Remember a couple of years ago how I managed to get my brother to go with me to Grandma’s house for Christmas? Everyone was there—all our relatives—Mom, our stepdad, their two kids, my brother, me, all our aunts and uncles and their kids—a whole ton of people. And my Grandma’s living room was literally filled with presents. I’ve never seen so many gifts before.
“Well, that Christmas morning we began handing out gifts. And everyone was getting all these gifts, and I mean lots of gifts. Everyone except my brother. I couldn’t believe even the amount of presents I got. I had just moved into an apartment so I was getting a bunch of new appliances and dishes. Everyone got piles of gifts but there was my brother sitting there with nothing. Oh, he finally got one gift, a small box of See’s candy. Can you believe it? He was sitting there with everyone laughing and handing out expensive gifts to each other.
“Everyone knew he was coming for Christmas and they all had plenty of time to get him something. But Dad, they intentionally ignored him. They were punishing him because they all knew he had chosen to live with you. I’m telling you, it was the meanest thing I have ever seen. I hated that day. I was so mad at my mom. I just died watching my brother sit there in silence.”
Tears were welling up in my daughter’s eyes. “You didn’t know this, Dad? He never told you?”
“He never said a word.”
I sat there staring at my daughter. I felt like a hundred pounds had just landed on my heart. My poor son. In despair I asked myself, “What kind of monsters are they?” His own mother rarely sees him and when she finally does, she treats him like that?
This story confirmed to me that every negative thought I ever had about this woman was true. In my thinking every bit of enmity I’d ever felt toward her was completely justified. I believed their mother was the worst person in the world and again she proved me right.
And my children would have to continue to deal with this woman as their mother.
This story confirmed to me that every negative thought I ever had about this woman was true.