I am considering having my son live with my ex-husband. The child has become uncontrollable, and I can no longer cope.
My son is 12 years old. If anyone had told me a decade ago that I’d be contemplating sending my child to live with his father, I would have laughed in their face. But now I find myself at the edge of a chasm, gasping for air as every particle of strength drains from me. I’m drowning, and no one is tossing me a lifeline.
My son, Jack, has become a stranger. He argues with me over everything, gets into fights at school, brings home things that aren’t his, and then grins shamelessly while claiming he just “borrowed them to play.” My phone constantly rings with calls from teachers, the head of his year, and parents of other students. Each call feels like a sucker punch, every day like walking through a minefield.
His father and I have been divorced a long time. My mother lives just around the corner from us in a small town near Norwich, but she’s of no help. Just criticisms and “wise” advice that makes me want to scream. She visits for half an hour in the evening, showers me with reproaches, then leaves, leaving a bitter taste. So Jack is all on me. I scream, cry, threaten, and take away his pocket money, but it’s all in vain. He smirks defiantly, as if knowing I’m powerless and my words are hollow.
Recently, there was another incident. I found an expensive smartphone in his backpack, clearly not a cheap one.
“Jack, where did this come from?” I demanded, glaring at him with a mix of anger and despair.
“Found it,” he shrugged, unfazed.
“Where?”
“On a bench.”
“What bench, for heaven’s sake?! Answer properly, you little rogue!” I snapped. “Do you understand it’s not yours? You stole it!”
“I didn’t steal, just took it,” he said calmly.
“And what were you planning to do with it?”
“Nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Just wanted to have a look.”
I was boiling with fury inside, feeling the rage bubble like lava.
“Do you even understand you can’t do that? It’s not yours! You’ll return it at school tomorrow!”
He looked at me with a challenging stare that made my hands shake.
“I won’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘won’t’?! Don’t you dare set the rules here!” I shouted, losing control.
“I won’t, and that’s that.”
I cracked, tears pouring uncontrollably, as he simply retreated to his room, as if nothing happened, as if my tears were trivial.
The next day, I called his father, Tom. My voice trembled, but I told him everything.
“It’s about Jack. I can’t cope. He’s become a different person, steals, is rude. Can you take him? He needs a father figure. I’m scared we’re losing him, and he’ll end up on the wrong path.”
Tom fell silent before letting out a heavy sigh.
“You know, I’m not in a position for that now. Working late, no time to parent.”
“And I do?” I exploded. “I’m alone! Mum just blames me for letting things slip. You’re busy, I’m busy—where’s my help?”
“But you’re his mother…” he began.
“And you’re his father!” I interrupted. “An equal parent to me!”
He mumbled something about “thinking it over” and hung up. That evening, Mum came around. I decided to tell her my plan, and it was a nightmare.
“Anna, have you lost your mind?!” she screamed as soon as I opened my mouth. “Send your son to his father? What are you thinking?”
“Mum, I can’t handle this. I’m alone, I’m exhausted.”
“Can’t handle? You had him, you raise him! It’s unheard of for a mother to abandon her child!”
“And have you helped once? All you do is talk!” I snapped. “I’m carrying this all by myself—no husband, no you, no friends! Alone, always alone!”
She left, slamming the door, and I remained at the kitchen table, staring into space. Maybe I am a terrible mother? Maybe it’s my fault that Jack has become so defiant, distant, lost? Then I think: I’m human, not made of steel. I’m exhausted from being both mother and father, tired of bearing this unbearable weight. Yes, I’m the mother, but Tom’s his father, and why should I be responsible for both of us?
Since that day, Jack has stayed mostly in his room, silent, avoiding me. I sit, staring at the phone, waiting for Tom to call. I’ve made up my mind: if he doesn’t respond soon, I’ll call him myself. Maybe he’ll agree to take Jack? Or do I need to find the strength within myself? I don’t know what to do. I want to save my boy, but feel like I’m sinking, and no one is extending a hand. What should I do?
