I am filled with frustration and a sense of bewilderment. Here I am, sitting in front of a bright red phone—an outdated landline in an age dominated by smartphones. Ironically, this red phone serves a singular purpose: to connect me with child support enforcement.
It’s been over three years since my ex-partner has made any effort to reach out to our children. After his initial court appearance, his lawyer dropped him as a client, and his absence has since been marked as a failure to appear. Certified mail has gone unclaimed, regular mail has been tossed unopened, and attempts to knock on his door have been met with peculiar responses, like a returned knock followed by silence. I never sought to collect the child support owed to me because I was simply relieved to have escaped from his abusive grasp. I stubbornly refused to ask him for anything; if he pays, he exists. If he doesn’t, I can convince myself that he’s vanished from our lives, no longer a threat to me or my children.
Financially and emotionally, we are barely staying afloat. So when my car started acting up, I panicked. After taking it to the mechanic, I received the dreaded news: my aging Volvo is on its last legs, and the repair costs will far exceed my $29 bank balance. I take on substitute teaching gigs when I can, squeezing in classes at the university where I’m fortunate enough to work. I also write grants for a local nonprofit on short-term contracts, which I can manage while my kids bicker over milk. Most days, being with my kids is enough—until it’s not. Until a mechanic tells me that our only means of transportation is about to break down.
My son is three, and my daughter is five; they have adapted to this life, which has always been just the three of us. My son was barely five months old when we left, and my daughter holds on to a few scary memories, her only connection to a different past. They both yearn for a father figure, but that’s a fantasy I can’t provide, so they settle for my enthusiastic impersonations of superheroes and reminders that every family is unique.
What’s harder to accept is the realization that I’m not going to be saved by any miracle. Sitting next to that red phone while a support enforcement specialist spoke kindly but unhelpfully, a wave of despair washed over me.
“I’m here to file this paperwork,” I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady while my kids watched a movie in the lobby.
“What’s your case number?” she asked.
“I don’t have one,” I replied.
She examined my documents. “Oh, right, this is a new case. It appears there haven’t been any payments…ever. Okay…” she began shuffling through the papers, explaining the process. I couldn’t help but notice how tightly I gripped my hands, feeling older than my years as the last five years had left their marks on my face. My body has transformed, and though my heart remains warm, it feels burdened.
“I’m nervous,” I admitted. “I’m worried he might retaliate. I haven’t pursued this because it feels like poking a bear.”
“Did you mention that here?” she asked, glancing at my forms.
“There was a box for domestic violence or restraining orders. I checked it.”
She scanned the page. “Sorry, where? These forms are new to me,” she said, passing them back to me.
I pointed to the tiny box—one that signifies the horrors of abuse. Just a small checkmark to indicate that I feared he might lash out if I dared to stand up for my children or myself.
“Is there a restraining order?” she inquired. I nodded, explaining it expired in November—over five months ago. “You should provide that to us along with a written statement about your safety concerns. It will change how we proceed.”
“How will it change?” I asked. “Can there be any protection?”
“Well, if he threatens or reacts negatively, we can back off. Your safety is our priority.” While her words contained truth, they also revealed an unsettling reality.
The process would begin with certified mail, allowing him to respond and set up payments. “It’s been three years, and he doesn’t even know how to write a check,” I retorted.
She continued, explaining that it could take about six months before they could file for contempt. “Even after three years of nonpayment?” I questioned. She shrugged, indicating it was likely.
“We can then pursue suspension of his driver’s license to see if that gets his attention. Where does he work?” she asked.
I couldn’t help but snicker. “He probably doesn’t work. At least not officially. But he does have a trust fund that matured last October.” I felt uneasy about pursuing his unearned income, but here I was, with two kids, a failing car, and hardly any money.
“Okay, we’ll start with certified mail. He’ll have six months to respond, and then we can send someone to serve him papers,” she said.
“He won’t answer. He doesn’t sign for anything. He’s suspicious of everyone.”
“Well, we have to legally give him that time before looking into the trust fund for back payments. Often, fathers will demand to see their children and claim the mother is keeping them away, so we’ll need a parenting plan. When does he have the kids?”
At that moment, the tears I had been holding back began to flow. “He doesn’t have the kids at all. The judge ruled abandonment. He’s not allowed to see them, and he’s required to undergo a psychological evaluation.” She handed me a box of tissues.
“Have you reached out to the domestic violence resource center?” she asked softly. I nodded, recalling how they helped me escape that dangerous home. “Would you like to apply for TANF?” I shook my head; I didn’t qualify due to earning just above the limit with my three jobs.
“I…I don’t want to file. I’m sorry. Thank you for your help.” I stood up, acutely aware that she saw me as I had been unwilling to see myself for the past three years: stuck.
My mother hopes for a savior, a kind gentleman who will swoop in to rescue her troubled daughter and her unruly children. Part of me clings to that notion, but another part scoffs at it. This isn’t the 1950s. Yet, I also remember the incredible strength of the women who came before me. Tired and worn, they faced injustices I can only imagine. I stand taller because of them.
There is resilience to be found in struggle. When resources are scarce, you learn to adapt and make do with what you have. You redefine your parameters. Isn’t that what truth is? Perception?
As I gathered my papers, she offered a sad smile, acknowledging the lack of support for someone in my situation. I attempted to lighten the mood with a crude joke about my ex meeting an unfortunate fate, and she chuckled lightly. Nevertheless, I knew I wouldn’t be the last person with a heartbreaking story that day.
I took my kids from the screen, bidding farewell to their new friend, and we stepped out into the world with my aging car, which I appreciate more with each journey. Each trip is a small victory, even as I brace for the inevitable breakdown to come.
In the rearview mirror, I watched my daughter with her tangled hair, animatedly gesturing as she secured her seatbelt. My son was racing her, eager to buckle in first. On our way to a thrift store to search for Harry Potter books, I adjusted my expectations of what constitutes a beautiful life.
A beautiful life is about refining and embracing the challenges that make it remarkable. I cherish my children, especially since I could have lost them. I value my aging car, even as it teeters on the edge of failure. I wouldn’t appreciate these sweet, fleeting moments if life were less complicated.
What a gift it is to have my children—a little chaotic, a lot lively—who keep me awake at night with tales of mischievous elves and surprise hugs. Without the challenges, life would be far too quiet. A car is just a car. We will endure. We’ve faced worse—and look how far we’ve come.
Summary
This narrative explores the struggles of a single mother navigating child support while dealing with the remnants of an abusive relationship. As she confronts the bureaucratic system and reflects on her circumstances, she recognizes her resilience and the strength inherited from the women before her. Ultimately, she finds gratitude in her chaotic but beautiful life with her children, redefining her understanding of happiness amidst adversity.
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