Each morning, I awaken with dreams of my daughters. I’m not merely an empty nester; my children haven’t grown up yet. I didn’t lose them to a tragic accident or illness. As far as I know, they are both thriving. But they no longer share my home, and it’s been over two and a half years since I last saw them.
Am I still a mother? Can you truly be a mother when you’re unable to see or communicate with your children? I can’t take them to school, wipe their tears, kiss them goodnight, or bake their birthday cakes. The opportunities to be involved in their lives are countless and lost to me. I suppose you could label me a “former mother.”
When people inquire about my children, I often find myself at a loss for words. Most of the time, I simply say yes and pretend to be like other moms. Who would want to hear the truth? I certainly won’t reveal that I lost custody due to a regrettable disagreement with my ex-husband. For the record, I have never harmed him or my children.
In better times, we shared joint custody, and I was deeply engaged in every aspect of my daughters’ lives. From PTA meetings to Girl Scouts and daily routines, I flourished in my role as their mother.
In a couple of months, they will celebrate their 13th and 10th birthdays—significant milestones. I’ll finally have a teenager, and my youngest will enter double digits. Yet, I will miss these moments, just as I have missed the past two years. Their stepmother bought my eldest her first bra, and I hear she’s started her period and is likely taller than I am. My youngest has braces and has begun playing the violin. I receive sporadic updates and rare photos when my mother visits them twice a year. Although those snippets of their lives are comforting, they are nowhere near enough. I long to be their mother again, not a mere memory of what once was.
My dreams often mirror this longing. I find myself in familiar places, desperately trying to get their attention, even knowing I might face consequences. I embrace them briefly, touching their faces, sometimes seeing them as their current selves, other times as the little girls they used to be. I cherish these dreams, even if I wake alone in my empty house.
About a month ago, I caught a glimpse of them across a parking lot. My fiancé and I were at the local middle school for a basketball game. I was shocked to see them walking together. My heart raced, and instinctively, I wanted to run to them, to hold them tightly. But my fiancé stopped me, reminding me that I couldn’t do that. I watched helplessly as they walked away, my heart aching. “They were right there,” I told him, and all he could say was, “I know…” That brief moment was the closest I had been to them in two years.
I often fantasize about encountering them in public—perhaps at a grocery store or Target. Yet, we no longer shop at the same places, and I rarely visit those stores.
All I ever wanted was to be a mother. While some girls dream of becoming doctors or artists, my dream was simply to be a mom.
Now, I’m engaged to a wonderful man and consider the possibility of starting anew with children. I had my eldest when I was 25. At 38, I feel it may be too late to embark on this journey again. Plus, how could I justify bringing more children into the world when I don’t even get to see my own? This thought weighs heavily on me. I miss being a mother. I miss my girls. Living as a former mother feels unbearable. I often feel empty, alone, and heartbroken. I wish there were a way to change my situation. All I have left are my dreams.
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Summary:
This article explores the profound emotional journey of a mother who has lost custody of her children. It delves into her feelings of longing and loss, the challenges of reconciling her identity as a “former mother,” and the impact of her situation on her future. Through dreams and fleeting encounters, the narrative captures the heartache of being separated from her daughters and grapples with the complex feelings surrounding motherhood and loss.