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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
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
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.
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.