I want my son to live with his father. My child has become uncontrollable, and I can’t manage anymore.
My son is 12 years old. If someone had told me ten years ago that I would consider sending my child to live with his father, I would have laughed in their face. But now I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, feeling overwhelmed and as if life is draining from me drop by drop. I’m drowning, and no one is throwing me a lifeline.
My son, Arthur, has become a stranger. He argues with me over everything, gets into fights at school, brings home things that aren’t his, and then boldly claims he just “borrowed them to play.” My phone doesn’t stop ringing—teachers, the headmaster, or other parents call. Each conversation is like a punch to the gut, and each day feels like walking through a minefield.
My ex-husband and I have been divorced for a long time. My Mum lives in the next street over in our little town near Brighton, but she’s no help. She only criticizes and gives “wise” advice that makes me want to scream. She stops by for half an hour in the evening to criticize me and leaves, leaving a bitter taste behind. So Arthur is entirely my responsibility. I’ve shouted, cried, threatened, and taken away his pocket money—nothing works. He looks at me with defiant eyes and smirks, as if knowing I’m powerless and that my words are meaningless.
Recently, another incident happened. I found an expensive smartphone in his bag—clearly, not a cheap one.
“Arthur, where did this come from?” I demanded, my eyes filled with a mix of anger and desperation.
“Found it,” he said without blinking.
“Where did you find it?”
“On a bench.”
“What bench, for heaven’s sake?! Answer honestly, you little rascal!” I snapped. “Do you understand that it belongs to someone else? You stole it!”
“I didn’t steal it, I just took it,” he replied calmly.
“And what were you planning to do with it?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just wanted to look at it.”
I was furious, feeling as though lava boiled inside me.
“Do you even realize this isn’t allowed? It’s not yours! Tomorrow, you’ll go back to school and return it!”
He looked at me defiantly again, making my hands shake.
“I’m not going to.”
“What do you mean, ‘not going to’?! Don’t you dare set your own rules here!” I shouted, losing control.
“I’m not going, and that’s final.”
I couldn’t take it anymore—tears flowed freely, but he just went to his room as if nothing happened, as if my tears meant nothing to him.
The next day, I called his father, Steve. My voice was shaky, but I laid everything out:
“It’s about Arthur. I can’t handle him. He’s become a stranger, he steals, he’s rude. Could you take him? He needs a male role model. I’m afraid we’ll lose him, and he’ll end up on the wrong path.”
Steve fell silent and then let out a heavy sigh.
“You know, I’m really busy right now. I work late, no time to raise a child.”
“And do you think I have time?!” I exploded. “I’m on my own! Mum just blames me for losing control of him. You’re busy, I’m busy—will anyone help me?!”
“But you’re his mother…” he started.
“And you’re his father!” I interrupted. “You’re just as much his parent as I am!”
He mumbled something about ‘thinking’ and hung up. That evening, Mum came over. I dared to share my plan, which turned into a nightmare.
“Elizabeth, are you out of your mind?!” she yelled the moment I opened my mouth. “Send your son to his father? How could you think of that?”
“Mum, I can’t cope. I’m alone, I’m exhausted.”
“Can’t cope? You gave birth to him, you raise him! What kind of mother gives up her child?”
“And have you ever helped? All you do is talk!” I snapped. “I handle everything on my own—no husband, no help from you, no friends! Alone, always alone!”
She left, slamming the door, leaving me in the kitchen staring into space. Maybe I am a bad mother? Maybe it’s my fault Arthur has become difficult, distant, lost? But then I think: I’m human, not made of stone. I’ve grown weary of being both mother and father, of carrying this heavy burden. Yes, I’m his mother, but Steve is his father, so why should I bear all the responsibility alone?
Since that day, Arthur barely leaves his room, silent and avoiding me. And I sit, staring at the phone, waiting for Steve to call. I’ve decided: if he doesn’t respond soon, I’ll call him myself. Maybe he’ll agree to take his son? Or should I find the strength within myself? I don’t know what to do. I want to save my boy, but I feel I’m drowning, and no one is reaching out to help me. What do I do?
