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The Horrible Reason I Called the Police On My Kids

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I didn’t know what to do. It had been three days since I heard from my sons who live on the other side of the country with their dad. I usually speak to them every day—first thing in the morning before they go to school and once again when they are home from school and about to do their homework.

Three days had passed and still no responses to my voice messages, text messages or the voice and text messages I left on their dad’s phone.

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What am I supposed to think at this point? Am I supposed to just sit by and wait for someone to contact me? Do I chalk it up to my Baby Daddy being who he is and sending my calls to voicemail even though he knows I only contact him when it is important? What can I do from all the way across the country when I don’t know if my kids are OK?

I think about them just as much as any other mom. I want to know if they made it safely from school, if their friends are treating them well and if they are making healthy food choices. A phone call is the most I can do from all the way here in Los Angeles, so the distance breaks my heart a little more when I can’t hear their voices.

Three whole days with no stories about math tests and field trips and Nike ID and the latest YouTube videos kind of threw me for a loop. What was going on over there? I knew by the fact that when I called their dad’s phone and he sent it to voicemail that they were OK. So why wouldn’t they answer my calls or call me back?

Maybe he’s gotten through to them, and they now see me as unimportant and unnecessary.

My real fear was that it had finally gotten to them; the years of poison he was feeding them about me. Their dad often reminds me that I am meaningless to my sons, unimportant and useless. He sends text messages with these reminders, emails—and during the rare occasion that we do speak, he will remind me verbally. I once had to go to court to ask for a no contact order to stop the harassment. It was granted, and those were the most peaceful six months of my entire life.

Then it started again. I am not sharing this to whine and complain and paint myself as a victim, because I do not feel like one, not anymore. I’m used to his insults and attacks by now, his threats and put-downs, his guilt and shaming tactics. Even though I am used to it, our sons are really the victims here.

I know I will receive a barrage of insults in response, but I send him messages reminding him that we need to work as a team, and that if our sons are only exposed to him berating me they will grow up to hate women and have terrible relationships.

“You are a horrible mother, person and woman, in my opinion,” he responded to my plea for peace just last week.

Maybe, just maybe, my sons are not responding because they finally believe him. Maybe he’s gotten through to them, and they now see me as unimportant and unnecessary. Maybe my sons are over there looking at my phone calls and ignoring them, feeling high off of hurting me like their dad does.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I decided to do what I could. I called the police in their hometown and asked if they would stop by and see if they were OK.

The police agreed and 20 minutes later I received a phone call from a female officer telling me that my boys were fine, healthy and clean. My sons called me a couple minutes after that, their voices shaky as they greeted me. I could detect a hint of shock and fear as my son told me that they were fine, but I all I could feel was relief.

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They said their phone had died and they didn’t think to call me. I guess my sons don’t understand how much I have them on my brain and how, even through 3,000 miles, I am linked to them emotionally. It hurt not to speak to them and know if they were all right. To them it may just be a couple of days but to me, it was like someone snipped my lifeline.

I’m not sure if my biggest fear has come true and their dad was right when he said that I wasn’t that important to them. Or maybe I’m just being overly sensitive and the boys are getting older so they need more space. I hope it’s the latter.

What would you do?

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