I want to send my son to live with his father. He’s become uncontrollable, and I just can’t manage anymore.
My son is 12 years old. If someone had told me ten years ago that I would consider letting him live with his dad, I would have laughed in their face. But now, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, gasping for air as life slowly drains out of me. I’m drowning, and there’s no lifeline in sight.
My son, Tom, has transformed into a stranger. He argues with me over everything, gets into fights at school, and brings home things that aren’t his, claiming with a cheeky grin that he “borrowed them to play with.” My phone is constantly ringing—his teacher, the head of year, parents of other students. Each call feels like a punch to the gut, and each day is like navigating a minefield.
His father and I have been divorced for a while now. My mother lives in the next town over, but I get no help from her—just criticisms and “wise” advice that only make me want to scream. She drops by for a half-hour in the evening, criticizes me, and leaves, leaving behind a bitter taste. So Tom is all my responsibility. I’ve tried everything—shouting, crying, taking away his pocket money—but it’s all in vain. He looks at me with defiant eyes, smirk on his face, as if he knows I’m powerless, that my words are empty.
The latest incident pushed me to the brink. I found an expensive, clearly-not-his smartphone in his backpack.
“Tom, where did you get this?” I asked, my eyes a mix of anger and despair boring into him.
“I found it,” he replied without a blink.
“Where did you find it?”
“On a bench.”
“What bench? For goodness sake, answer properly, little rascal!” I snapped. “Do you understand that this belongs to someone else? You stole it!”
“Didn’t steal, just took,” he said calmly.
“What were you planning to do with it?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just wanted to take a look.”
Rage bubbled inside me like lava.
“Do you realize you can’t just do that? It’s not yours! Tomorrow, you will take it back to school and return it!”
He looked at me defiantly, making my hands shake.
“I won’t.”
“What do you mean you won’t?! You’re not calling the shots here!” I shouted, losing control.
“I’m not going, that’s that.”
I couldn’t hold it together any longer—tears streamed down my face while he simply walked to his room, as if my tears were nothing to worry about.
The next day, I called his father, John. With a shaky voice, I laid it all out:
“It’s about Tom. I can’t manage anymore. He’s become a stranger, steals, talks back. Maybe he should stay with you? He needs a male role model. I’m scared we’re losing him, and that he’ll end up delinquent.”
John went silent before letting out a heavy sigh.
“You know my situation. I’m working late hours, there’s no time to be a parent.”
“And you think I have the time?! I exploded. “I’m alone! Mum just blames me for losing control over him. You’re busy, I’m busy—who’s going to help me?!”
“But you’re his mother…” he started.
“And you’re his father!” I interrupted. “You’re as much a parent as I am!”
He mumbled something about “thinking about it” and hung up. That evening, Mum came by. I hesitated but then decided to tell her my plan, which turned into a nightmare.
“Emma, have you lost your mind?!” she yelled before I could even start. “Give your son to his father? What kind of idea is that?”
“Mum, I can’t do it anymore. I’m alone, and I’m exhausted.”
“Can’t do it? You gave birth to him, now raise him! Since when does a mother just give up on her child?”
“And have you helped even once? You just wag your tongue!” I burst out. “I carry all the weight—no husband, no you, no friends! Alone, always alone!”
She left, slamming the door, leaving me staring into the abyss in the kitchen. Maybe I am a bad mother? Maybe it’s my fault that Tom has become so defiant, distant, lost? But then I remind myself: I’m only human, not made of steel. I’m tired of being both mother and father, tired of carrying this unbearable burden. Yes, I’m his mother, but John is his father, so why should I bear both our responsibilities alone?
Since that day, Tom barely leaves his room and avoids me. I sit, staring at the phone, waiting for a call from John. I’ve decided: if he doesn’t reach out in the next few days, I will. Maybe he’ll agree to take Tom in? Or should I find the strength within myself? I’m at a loss. I want to save my boy, but I feel like I’m drowning, and no one’s reaching out to help. What should I do?
