The dreaded call came only a few days after I had moved out of our home. I’d been expecting it, but that didn’t stop the fear from crawling up my spine. Somehow, I felt like I was the one in trouble, not Alex. I knew I’d made mistakes, and I had no idea how they were going to be used against me.
The meeting was scheduled for the next morning, which arrived far sooner than I would’ve liked. We sat down in the den, and Mary immediately started grilling me. “When did it happen?” I couldn’t remember the exact date. She was less than impressed. “What exactly happened?” That I didn’t know either. I wasn’t home when it happened. All I had was the word of my autistic son — which was mostly inaccurate — but he had clearly said Alex punched him in the face because he’d pooped his pants. His description matched the photos I’d taken, and Sonia had repeated what Alex told her about hitting him. But still, the questions kept coming, and I kept failing.
My brain had blocked out that day and the weeks that followed. Trauma amnesia — very convenient for survival, very inconvenient when someone wants a detailed timeline. I looked like an idiot. Worse, I looked like I was hiding something.
Mary had already talked to Rowan the day before. I was positive she was going to take him from me. I had his things packed and ready. I was devastated at the thought of losing him because of what she had done. It didn’t seem fair — but fairness wasn’t exactly a theme in my life at the time.
Mary told me Alex was refusing to cooperate with the investigation and that there were more questions than answers. I handed her Rowan’s bag and hugged him goodbye. She looked confused. She said she wasn’t taking him. Her job was to keep families intact, and there were no reports of me abusing him.
Relief washed over me, but it was tangled with fear. Rowan and I were homeless. I had very little money and no idea what came next. Meanwhile, Mary started calling daily with more questions — most of which I could only vaguely answer. I was furious with myself for not remembering. This was important, and my brain had chosen now to short-circuit.
The court hearing came and went. DPPC required me to get a protective order against Alex. It was the first thing I’d done right in months, so I went to court. During the hearing, Rowan was asked to speak. He stood up proudly and said, “Hi Judge Judy.” The room snickered. Judge Judy was his favorite show, and he assumed all judges shared the name. I wanted to sink into the floor, but we were granted a temporary stay-away order.
If I wanted a longer one, I had to return the next week for a hearing — which meant facing Alex. She was on probation, and staying out of trouble was a condition. If I got a six-month or year-long order, she’d be in violation and could go to jail. I didn’t care. She had beaten my son. She deserved whatever consequences came her way.
Over the next week, I received several texts from her boyfriend Logan, begging me to drop it. Asking what he needed to do to make me “just not show up.” I considered it. I was terrified of seeing her, even in a courtroom where she couldn’t touch me. But I wanted her punished. I thought if she were punished, maybe things would finally be okay. Maybe we could move on.
The DPPC report wouldn’t be completed until late September — months away. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted her in jail now.
I went to court and faced a new judge. I said yes, I wanted the order made permanent. Then Alex got her chance to speak. She claimed I’d been texting her boyfriend, telling him I wanted to repair our friendship. All lies. I wanted nothing to do with her. I never wanted to see her again.
The judge saw no reason to continue the order since Rowan and I were in an undisclosed location. Defeat. I had lost. She was going to walk away without even a reprimand. It wasn’t fair.
My determination hardened. If the court wouldn’t hold her accountable, then maybe Mary would. Maybe the investigation would. Maybe someone, somewhere, would finally say what happened was wrong.
It would take months. But I could wait. I didn’t have a choice.
Another day, another crisis I didn’t cause,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 