Most mornings, I awaken from dreams about my children, my daughters. I am not an empty nester; my kids are still young. I haven’t experienced a tragic loss due to an accident or illness. As far as I know, they are both healthy and thriving. Yet, they do not reside with me, and I haven’t seen them in over two and a half years.
Am I still a mother? Can one remain a mother to children they cannot see or speak to? Or drive to school, comfort in times of distress, tuck in at night, bake birthday cakes for, or witness their everyday growth? The list of ways I’m excluded from their upbringing is extensive. In many ways, I am a “former mother.”
When people inquire about my children, I find myself at a loss for words. Often, I simply say yes and present an image of a typical mom. Few would be interested in the truth. I certainly have no intention of sharing that I lost custody over a petty argument with their father, my former spouse. (For the record, I have never harmed him or my daughters, nor anyone else for that matter.)
Before the fallout, we had shared custody, and I was deeply involved in my children’s lives—participating in PTA meetings, Girl Scouts, school events, and their everyday routines. I thrived in that role.
Soon, they will celebrate their 13th and 10th birthdays—significant ages. One will be a teenager, and the other will step into double digits. I’ll miss these milestones, just as I have missed the previous two years. Their stepmother has already bought my eldest her first bra, and she now experiences her period. My youngest has braces and has begun learning the violin. Occasionally, I receive updates and rare photographs during my mother’s biannual visits. While those glimpses are comforting, they are not sufficient. I yearn to be their mother again, not merely a former one.
Every night, my dreams follow a similar pattern. I often find myself in various settings, desperately trying to catch their attention, despite knowing I might face consequences. I cherish the moments when I can hug them and touch their sweet faces, whether they appear as they are now or as younger versions of themselves. Those dreams are a bittersweet comfort, even as I awaken alone in my empty house.
About a month ago, I spotted them across a parking lot quite by chance. My fiancé and I were at a local middle school, attending a basketball game for his son. There was no reason for my daughters to be there, yet there they were, walking side by side towards the parking lot. My heart raced as I saw them. My instinct was to rush over and embrace them, just like in my dreams. But my fiancé stopped me, saying, “You can’t do that.” I stayed in the car, straining to catch a glimpse as they disappeared from view.
I sat there, shaking and heartbroken. “They were right there,” I murmured. “I know…” was all my fiancé could manage. That was the closest I had been to them in two years, and it was merely from across a busy parking lot. They didn’t see me, and I often wonder what their reaction would have been had they. I fantasize about running into them in places like Target or the grocery store, but we’ve stopped frequenting the same stores.
All I ever wanted in life was to be a mother. While many girls dream of becoming doctors or artists, my aspiration was to raise children.
Now, I’m engaged to a wonderful man and contemplate starting anew with him. I had my first child at 25, and now at 38, I feel it may be too late to embark on motherhood again. Additionally, how could I bring more children into the world when I am unable to see the two I already have? It feels unjust. Yet, I miss being a mom. I miss my daughters. Being a former mother is a painful experience, leaving me feeling empty, lonely, heartbroken, and perpetually sad. I wish I could change this reality. All I have left are my dreams.
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Summary: The emotional journey of being a non-custodial parent can be fraught with challenges and heartache. This experience of feeling disconnected from one’s children, missing out on significant milestones, and grappling with the complexity of motherhood without active participation is a profound struggle.
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