Yesterday was a big day. I woke up and set out to Bulls Gap, Tennessee, to meet with my ex-husband and his wife to retrieve our three kids from their eight-week-long summer visitation.
I was nervous, yet relieved that those eight weeks had finally slipped away and my kids would be back home, where they give this house memories.
You see... this summer, like others past, was full of uncertainty. Like clockwork, I had to sit back and let the dice fall as they would. With normal rhythm, the broken record played yet again. I sat at home, 800 miles away, helpless, watching my children lose a part of their souls through twisted truths, manipulated accusations, fantasy realities, and false promises. Per the usual, I had to sit back and let it happen. I had to let my children, some more than others, fall into a trap of deceit while holding on tight to hope. Hope that once those eight weeks passed, my children would return home and see the haze had lifted and that all the days before were calculated decisions by parents who should be protecting their hearts, not changing them. Two of the three seem to have grown immune to this virus that wants to cling to them and poison them with doubt. But one, in the most vulnerable stage of her life so far, became its target.
This isn't the first time, and I would be foolish to think it would be the last. For years, I have lingered in the backseat, though I am the front-seat rider in their lives. I have been accused of neglect, abuse, not caring, not paying attention, not being present enough. I have been scolded for not working, for not making an income, for taking too long to graduate college. I have been beaten down and bullied for moving my family to a home that is filled with love and memories, for the schools they have to attend...and do well at... or "stealing" memories from them. I have fought tooth and nail for years through defenses, prayers, accommodations, sacrifices, financial uncertainty, court battles, and sacrifice. But yet...
I am the problem.
I have come to terms with the fact that no matter how good I am, it will never be good enough for some. I have come to accept that no matter how much you do, people who have already made their minds up about you will always find a way to have a problem with it. And that's okay.
For a long time, I overdid it. I went the extra mile, but this summer put things into perspective. Three years ago, they tried to strip me of my children. They thought there was suddenly such a massive threat that the kids were not safe with me. I showed up to the accusations; they did not. I showed up to fight for my children and never gave up.
In between those three years, I held steady. I kept in touch with attorneys, the courts, and the problems at hand, all while I continued to be kind, courteous, and respectful. I never once lost sight, though. I knew my kindness wouldn't go so far. I knew theirs was a smokescreen and the "friendly" banter was just an act. But yet, they didn't rise. They didn't continue the fight they started. For two years, again, I sat in the backseat. I let them drive and ignore the mess they made while doing whatever I could to help clean it up. Until this summer.
The storm hit once again. The old condescending accusations, the narcissistic blame shifting, and petty backhands returned. Our preteen daughter is going through it. She's emotional. She's in a fragile stage of life, quickly driving into the changing seasons that a young girl finds in her early teens. The self-doubt, the worries, the urge for independence and privacy. She feels lost, and that is masked as feeling alone.
The manipulation and lies that were fed into her bred a new kind of fight that I had never had to face before. The fight for my child's peace. The fight to remind her that love isn't always enough... but effort is. I watched my little girl crumble. I heard her cries and stayed patient through the countless weeks she didn't want to talk to me, all while allowing the monsters under the bed to rip apart reality for a short time.
This was quite painful. To allow such damage to your child's spirit because you couldn't do anything to change it. Knowing my little girl is in there battling with herself and that I can't hold her and tell her it's going to be okay. Letting her believe things that led her to wanting to discontinue living with me and move to where she has never been a priority.
I had to face it with poise. I had to draw boundaries and not take the bullying myself like I had for years before. To not let them into my head like they had successfully done to our vulnerable daughter.
And then it stopped. The day came for their return. I got to hold them back into safety, welcome them back to their home—not just within the house built around them, but within my arms, where I have always held them close.
The fight isn't over, though. Court dates are returning soon, where yet again, I have to prove who I am as a mother, as if respectful, smart, considerate, and kind-hearted children aren't enough proof. Yet again, I have to realign the balance between wishes and reality. Yet again, I have to change habits, form schedules, and replace vacation mode with routines. And I will be the bad cop for it.
Again, I will be the mean one who has to discipline when it's needed, redirect when they lose track, and instill priorities and obligations over laziness. I have to be the parent. The one who has to love hard with hard love at times. The one who has to hear the "I hate yous" and "I wish I was an only child." The "You love her more," and "He is your favorite." I have to juggle everyone's life, loves, and worries. I have to be all of the above while biting my tongue, wishing I could just tell them all the truth of what life elsewhere would really be like. When I want to tell them about the cruelty and bullying ways, I hold it back, stand tall, and continue to raise them.
All of this while still being tender. While knowing my little girl is tormented by a loss she doesn't actually have. To feel distance between her and her father—who could change that if he wanted to. Not by taking away her life, but by joining the one she's built.
But I can't change that. I can only sit shotgun and help guide her down the unknown roads, telling her when to take the brake, veer to the left, turn to the right, stop, and pay attention both ways.
After we returned home, I could tell half of her wasn't home still, but I will remain patient and seek the help she needs that I can't provide. It will be okay. This too shall pass. But not without my undying desire to see it through.
When everything settled and she was in her bed, I sat down beside her and told her how happy I was to have her home. But I also told her I understand. Not how she feels, but that she is feeling. I told her I don't know what is going on inside her, but I want to learn. And I told her I couldn't change life. I can't take away her pain, and I can't make her father be closer. But I could do one thing.
I could never give up.
And for her father...that's on him. However, I had one thing to give her that I hoped would ease my little girl's heart and give her a sense of closeness with him she hasn't had before.
I took off my right-hand ring. A ring that her father had given me when she was just a little baby, and I gave it to her. I told her that when she is sad, when she wishes she could see him, be near him, or reaches those natural thoughts of what life would have been like had she never felt like she had to choose between us, she could hold that. Spin it. Touch it. And know that it was from him. From when she was ours. From when he loved me. From when the life she had didn't look like it does now. And she can feel closer to him for a moment.
Because it wasn't given to me with malice. It wasn't given to me while bearing the burdens we are now faced with. It was given to me with love. And if I could give her any part of that life, those good memories, I would.
All I had was that ring... as a small gesture of, I don't want you to not have your dad. I don't want you to feel caught between us. I want you to know it's okay to love us both while you are here, safe... where I can protect you from things unknown... as I always have, and as I always will.
While two of the three have grown accustomed to this cycle, it still pains me that they have had to learn how to endure it. No child should have to become familiar with the weight of something they never asked to carry.
And for the one who was most vulnerable, the one who was searching for answers in a season of uncertainty, my beautiful baby girl...I pray she finds her way back to herself. To reality. To the love that has never made her feel like she had to fight to have it.
Because all three of them are still mine to love, to protect, and to guide. Their paths may look different, and they may each face their own battles along the way, but I am here for every mile of the journey.
I am now in the driver’s seat, not to control where life takes them, but to guide them, to tour them through this world, and to help them find their way when they visit those difficult places again.
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