I’m feeling a mix of frustration, anger, and confusion as I sit before a bright red phone, a relic in an age dominated by wireless devices. This particular phone serves a single purpose: connecting to child support enforcement. It’s ironic how efficient it is.
It’s been over three years since my ex-partner last reached out to his children. After his initial court appearance, his lawyer dropped him as a client, and his absence became a permanent record. Certified mail went unclaimed, and regular correspondence was discarded unread. Attempts to engage him in person were met with bizarre responses—like unanswered knocks at his door. I never sought to collect the child support he owed because I was just relieved to have my kids and escape his abusive grip. Plus, I was too proud to ask anything from him. If he pays, it acknowledges his existence; if he doesn’t, I can pretend he’s vanished from our lives, incapable of causing us harm.
Our financial and emotional margins are razor-thin. So when our car began to slip while shifting gears, panic set in. The mechanic, who always delivers bad news, told me my aging Volvo was on its last legs. With only $29 in my checking account, I knew I couldn’t afford repairs or a new vehicle. I substitute teach when I can and take on grant writing for a local nonprofit. I fit these jobs around my kids, reminding myself that being present for them is often enough. Until it isn’t. Until a mechanic tells you your only mode of transportation is about to fail.
My children, ages three and five, have only known life with me. My son was just five months old when we left, and my daughter clings to a few frightening memories of our past life. They both long for a father, but he’s simply not part of our reality. They find solace in my silly impersonations and my reassurance that families come in many forms.
What’s harder to accept is the stark realization that no miraculous solution is on the horizon. Sitting next to that red phone as the support enforcement specialist spoke to me, I felt a sinking sensation.
“I’m here to file this paperwork,” I said, my voice awkward. My kids were across the room, engrossed in Ice Age with a new friend.
“What’s your case number?” she asked.
“I don’t have one,” I replied.
She examined my forms closely. “Oh, this is a new case. It appears there hasn’t been any payment… ever. Okay…” As she shuffled through the paperwork, I gripped my hands tightly, feeling older than my years, marked by the struggles of the past five years. My body has shifted from lean to matronly, and while my heart remains warm, it carries an immense weight.
“I’m nervous,” I admitted. “I fear he might retaliate. Pursuing this feels like poking a bear.”
She glanced at my papers. “Did you note that here?”
“There was a box for domestic violence or restraining orders. I checked it.”
She scoured the page. “Sorry, where? These forms are new to me.” I pointed to the tiny box indicating serious issues, knowing it barely conveyed the reality of my situation. A simple checkmark was meant to represent a lifetime of fear that he could turn violent if I dared to stand up for myself or my children.
“Is there a restraining order?” I nodded, explaining it had expired months ago. “You should submit that along with a statement about your safety concerns. That will impact how we proceed.”
“How will it change?” I asked. “Will there be protection?”
“Well, if he threatens you, we can retreat. Your safety is paramount.”
This was where my feelings of disbelief settled in. “So, if he’s a big enough bully, he gets to dictate things?”
“Essentially, yes. Your safety and your kids’ safety come first.” She spoke truthfully but seemed unaware of the injustice of the situation.
She explained they would start with certified mail to notify him and set up payments. I expressed my doubts, knowing he wouldn’t respond. The timeline for filing contempt was another six months away. “That’s after three years of nonpayment?” I asked, incredulously.
“We can pursue a suspended driver’s license if necessary. Where does he work?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. “He probably doesn’t have a job. He does have a trust fund that matured recently, but that feels wrong to pursue.”
“Okay. We’ll start with certified mail, allow him six months to respond, then we can send someone to serve him papers.”
“He won’t answer or sign anything. He’s suspicious and will likely refuse delivery.”
“Well, we have to follow legal protocol. After that, we may explore the trust fund for back pay.”
“Just to clarify, he doesn’t have the kids at all. The judge ruled abandonment.” Tears began to well up, a mix of frustration and helplessness.
“Have you visited the domestic violence resource center?” she asked softly. I nodded, remembering how they helped me escape. “Would you like to apply for TANF?” I shook my head; I was just above the cutoff thanks to my three jobs.
“I… it’s not worth it,” I said, wiping away tears. “I can’t risk him retaliating. I’d like my papers back, please. I… don’t want to file. Thank you for your help.”
As I rose, I realized she saw me clearly, perhaps even more than I’d been willing to see myself these past years—stuck.
My mother wishes for a savior to rescue me, to take care of me and my children. There’s a part of me that wishes for that too, but another part scoffs at the notion. This isn’t the 1950s. Yet, I find strength in the women who came before me, those who endured more and fought harder.
There is resilience to be found in adversity. When resources are scarce, you make do with what you have, adjusting to new realities.
As I gathered my things, she returned my paperwork, neatly bundled. I attempted a joke to lighten the mood, but it felt hollow, knowing I wouldn’t be the last person with a heart-wrenching story that day.
I gathered my kids, and we left the office, heading to our aging car, which I appreciate more with every trip it takes us. My daughter’s hair was a chaotic mess as she animatedly buckled herself in, while my son raced her, hoping to beat her to the punch. They were excited to explore a second-hand store for Harry Potter books.
Reflecting on what it means to have a beautiful life, I realize it’s about embracing the challenges and moments that make life noteworthy. I’m grateful for my children, my car, and my life because, without these trials, I might overlook the precious moments that bring joy.
Life is a process of perfecting and refining.
In summary, navigating the complexities of child support and the aftermath of an abusive relationship is a harrowing journey. The struggle for safety, stability, and the well-being of one’s children is fraught with challenges, and often, the systems in place can feel inadequate or unjust. Yet, amidst the hardships, there is resilience and gratitude for the small moments that make life meaningful.