Originally posted June 28, 2019 / Revised September 16, 2023
In a life filled with hope and despair, love and betrayal, we faced the unimaginable. Our story began on November 16, 2016, when we believed it was over. Finished. Done. Little did we know, our never-ending nightmare would resume on June 13, 2018, with a single, life-altering phone call.
Today, on June 28, 2018, we found ourselves sleepless for 15 days straight. Not since that fateful phone call that shook our world, when DFS deemed our home “unsafe,” when we faced 27 new allegations of false abuse, had we slept soundly. Our tension-filled lives were a psychological obstacle course, a minefield of deception, and a painful dance of survival.
As time passed, our trust eroded, and our hearts fractured. We loved them differently than we ever wanted, driven by the relentless pursuit of survival. The betrayals left scars, and we became people we didn’t recognize, all for the sake of enduring this painful journey.
Today, we stood at a crossroads, facing the unknown. They were his children, his flesh and blood, and the weight of their impending testimonies bore down on us. Our attorney’s call during the journey revealed the alienator’s next move: all three children were ready to testify against us.
Sickness churned in our stomachs, silence hung in the air. They weren’t my flesh and blood; my wounds ran deep. But his wounds, his grief, were bottomless. In my heart, I vowed never to make him choose, yet in my mind, I packed my belongings, ready to run from this unending merry-go-round.
Nearly a decade of fighting, draining accounts, trying every tactic, taking vacations, providing love and support—all in vain. They still wanted the abuser, the manipulator, the alienator.
As we climbed the courthouse steps for the umpteenth time, our future hung by a thread. The promise of justice and truth felt like distant illusions. We stood here once more, parental figures expunged, fighting to salvage the elusive childhood that was mercilessly stolen in an invisible war.
When children play an adult game, the rules change. No manual exists for battling parental alienation, no app, no Web MD. It’s a relentless dive, draining accounts, working extra jobs, sacrificing self, and hoping for a mere glimpse—a relationship, a text, a wave.
Now, a new level of despair, with three children lined up, scripts in hand, ready to speak of unfounded abuse etched into their souls. The decision loomed, to continue the battle or to retreat.
And so, one year ago today, our war ended—not by a judge, court order, or fight, but by our own breath. Upon hearing the news, the alienator screamed, her victory ringing hollow. The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting, and we had chosen peace in a battle we never signed up for.
Our painful journey against parental alienation continues, for the wounds may heal, but the scars remain.