I’m considering sending my son to live with my ex-husband. I can’t manage him anymore, and he’s become uncontrollable.
My son is 12 years old. If someone had told me ten years ago that I would be considering letting his father take him, I would have laughed in their face. Now, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, overwhelmed with helplessness, as if my life is slipping away, drop by drop. I’m drowning, and there’s no lifeline in sight.
My son, Jack, has become a stranger. He argues with me about everything, gets into fights at school, brings home other people’s belongings, and then brazenly claims he’s just “borrowing” them. My phone is constantly ringing—teachers, the headmaster, and other parents. Each call feels like a punch to the gut, each day like walking through a minefield.
My ex-husband and I have been divorced for a while. My mother lives just down the road in our little town near York, but she’s no help. All she offers are criticisms and her so-called “wise” advice, which make me want to scream. She stops by for half an hour in the evening, criticizes me, and leaves me feeling worse. So, Jack is solely my responsibility. I yell, cry, make threats, have taken away his pocket money—nothing works. He looks at me defiantly, knowing I’m powerless and that my words mean nothing.
The other day, there was another blow-up. I found someone else’s expensive smartphone in his backpack.
“Jack, where did this come from?” I demanded, my stare a mix of anger and desperation.
“I found it,” he replied without blinking.
“Where did you find it?”
“On a bench.”
“What bench, for heaven’s sake?! Answer me properly, you little thief!” I snapped. “Do you understand that’s not yours? You stole it!”
“I didn’t steal it; I borrowed it,” he replied calmly.
“And what were you planning to do with it?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged, “just wanted to look at it.”
I was boiling with rage, my insides churning like molten lava.
“Do you understand you can’t do that? It’s not yours! You will take it back to school tomorrow!”
He looked at me defiantly, and my hands shook with anger.
“I’m not going to.”
“What do you mean ‘I’m not going to’?! You can’t set the rules here!” I shouted, losing control.
“I’m not going, end of.”
I couldn’t take it—tears poured down my face, and he just walked off to his room as if nothing had happened, as if my tears meant nothing.
The next day, I called his father, Steve. My voice was trembling, but I laid it all out:
“It’s about Jack. I can’t handle him. He’s become someone else, steals, disrespects. Can you take him with you? He needs a male role model. I’m afraid we’ll lose him, and he’ll end up a criminal.”
Steve was silent. Then he let out a heavy sigh.
“You know I can’t right now. I’m working late, I don’t have time to raise him.”
“And you think I have time?! I erupted. “I’m alone! Mum just blames me for failing him. You’re busy, I’m busy—can’t anyone help me?”
“But you’re his mother…” he began.
“And you’re his father!” I interrupted. “Just as much a parent as I am!”
He mumbled something about “thinking it over” and hung up. That evening, my mum came over. I decided to tell her my plan—it was a disaster.
“Emma, are you out of your mind?!” she shouted as soon as I opened my mouth. “Send your son to his father? How could you think of that?”
“Mum, I can’t do it anymore. I’m alone, I have no strength.”
“Can’t do it? You gave birth to him, you raise him! Since when do mothers give up on their kids?”
“Have you ever helped? You just talk! I’m carrying it all alone—no husband, no you, no friends! Alone, always alone!”
She left, slamming the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen, staring into space. Maybe I am a bad mother? Maybe it’s my fault that Jack’s become so defiant, distant, lost? But then I think: I’m human, not made of steel. I’m tired of being both mother and father, tired of carrying this heavy burden. Yes, I’m his mother, but Steve’s his father, so why should I take on the responsibility for both of us?
Since then, Jack barely leaves his room, and avoids me. I sit watching the phone, waiting for Steve to call. I’ve decided: if I don’t hear from him in the next few days, I’ll call him myself. Maybe he’ll agree to take his son? Or should I somehow find the strength within myself? I don’t know what to do. 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?
