I want to send my son to live with his father. The boy has become uncontrollable, and I can no longer cope.
My son is twelve. Had someone told me ten years ago that I would ever consider sending my child away to his father, I would have laughed in their face. But now I stand at the edge of an abyss, gasping for breath, feeling as though life is slipping away from me drop by drop. I am drowning, and no one throws me a lifeline.
My son, Oliver, has become a stranger. He argues with me over everything, gets into fights at school, brings home things that aren’t his, then smirks and insists it wasn’t stealing—just “borrowing to play.” The phone never stops ringing—teachers, the head of year, other parents. Every call feels like a blow to the gut; every day is like stepping through a minefield.
His father and I divorced long ago. My mother lives just down the road in our little town near Birmingham, but her help amounts to nothing. Just criticism and “wise” advice that makes me want to scream. She drops by for half an hour in the evening, scolds me, and leaves behind a bitter aftertaste. So Oliver is entirely my burden. I shout, cry, threaten, take away his pocket money—all useless. He stares back at me with defiance, smirking as if he knows I’m powerless, that my words mean nothing.
The final straw came just the other day. I found someone else’s smartphone in his schoolbag—expensive, clearly no cheap thing.
“Oliver, where did this come from?” I demanded, glaring at him, my voice trembling with anger and despair.
“Found it,” he said without flinching.
“Where?”
“On a bench.”
“What bench, for heaven’s sake? Answer me properly, you little thief!” I snapped. “Do you understand this isn’t yours? You stole it!”
“Didn’t steal. Just took it,” he replied calmly.
“And what were you going to do with it?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just wanted to look at it.”
Rage boiled inside me like molten lava.
“You can’t just take what isn’t yours! Tomorrow, you will return this to school!”
He looked at me with a defiance that made my hands shake.
“No, I won’t.”
“What do you mean, you won’t? Don’t you dare set your own rules here!” I shouted, losing control.
“Won’t. That’s it.”
I broke—tears spilled down my face—but he just walked to his room as if nothing had happened, as if my crying was beneath his notice.
The next day, I called his father, Henry. My voice shook, but I laid it all out:
“It’s about Oliver. I can’t handle him anymore. He’s become a stranger—stealing, answering back. Maybe he should live with you? He needs a father’s influence. I’m afraid he’ll slip away, turn into a criminal.”
Henry went quiet. Then came a heavy sigh.
“You know I don’t have time for that. I work late, no energy left to raise him.”
“And you think I do?!” I exploded. “I’m alone! Mum just blames me for failing him. You’re busy, I’m busy—does anyone care to help me?”
“But you’re his mother…” he started.
“And you’re his father!” I cut in. “Just as much his parent as I am!”
He mumbled something about “thinking it over,” then hung up. That evening, my mother came by. I dared to tell her my plan, and it was a disaster.
“Emily, have you lost your mind?!” she shrieked before I even finished. “Send your son to his father? What kind of idea is that?”
“Mum, I can’t do it. I’m drowning. I have no strength left.”
“Can’t do it? You brought him into the world, now raise him! What mother gives up her child?”
“Have you ever helped? All you do is judge!” I snapped. “I do everything alone—no husband, no you, no friends! On my own, always on my own!”
She left, slamming the door, and I stayed in the kitchen, staring at nothing. Maybe I am a bad mother. Maybe Oliver is like this—defiant, distant, lost—because of me. But then I think: I’m only human, not made of steel. I’m exhausted from being both mother and father, from carrying this impossible weight. Yes, I’m his mother, but Henry is his father—why must I answer for us both?
Since that day, Oliver hardly leaves his room, avoids me, speaks little. And I sit here, staring at the phone, waiting for Henry to call. I’ve decided: if he doesn’t reach out soon, I’ll ring him again. Maybe he’ll take his son. Or maybe I must dig deep and find strength I don’t have. I don’t know what to do. I want to save my boy, but I feel myself sinking, and no one offers a hand. What am I supposed to do?