Waiting for My Son

It has been two hundred eight-three days since I’ve seen my son, Al.  

We chose a restaurant with an eclectic menu, and I picked him up for lunch. I was a bundle of nerves when we sat down at the table, gingerly negotiating my way through the conversation with one goal in mind – hanging on to our dwindling connection.

Al’s father, Michael, converted his guilt and shame for being an adulterous and absent father into a campaign of hate against me for years. After shattering our family, he didn’t strive to become a positive and engaging father to make up for the harm he had caused our son. Instead, he doubled down on inflicting further injuries on Al by destroying the vital bond he and I had, a bond that had kept Al secure, happy, and thriving for his entire existence up to that point. The mistress-turned-wife, Deborah Potechin, aka, Eve, joined his attack on me to assert her dominance and control over that household, making sure Michael would not work with me to raise our son collaboratively.

The couple exposed Al to constant false accusations and negative comments about all aspects of me, twisting everything I did through their distorting machine with added toxin and fed the muck to Al. With their spin, my enrolling Al in summer camps to afford him learning and social opportunities became “depriving him of a childhood;” my providing care for Al’s physical and mental health became “micromanaging” him; my connecting him with friends became “disrespecting his privacy;” and my taking Al on vacations to see the world and paying for him to go to college were “all about” me, “not for his benefit” at all. They misinterpreted my genuine concerns expressed in private communications between parents to foment Al’s resentment towards me.

They duped Al into believing their abuse and neglect were expressions of “respecting” his “autonomy” and “freedom,” the “standard of American parenting,” whereas psychologists recommended authoritative parenting style that I practiced was “controlling” and “un-American.” Their misleading rhetoric caused Al’s self-doubt, cultivating his dependency on their coaching.

Al has been immersed in the Jonestown-style deception throughout his adolescence. The internal turmoil of demolishing the deep bond we once had left him alone, anxious, and insecure. The couple’s constant attacks on me and demands for his loyalty fostered his mistrust of me and substantially undermined my authority and credibility as a parent.

The loss of a mother’s daily tender love and care, the loneliness of being neglected by Michael and snubbed by Potechin, and the stress of a loyalty conflict forced upon him by his father created a suffocating environment that drove Al to find an escape, and he found it in video games.  

When Al was with me, Michael demanded that he report everything to him over the phone behind closed doors away from me. Al was compelled to find something to complain about me to prove his loyalty to his father, and my objection to his excessive gaming was a natural choice. Michael was presented with two options: Act responsibly for Al’s best interests by supporting my position or clench Al’s loyalty by encouraging his teenage ignorance at the expense of his wellbeing. Predictably, Michael chose the latter with vigor and consistency, pushing Al deep into video game addiction.

He took Al back to his home last June and continues enabling his gaming addiction. Potechin intercepted my email and text messages asking Michael to help with Al’s recovery. She perceives my contacting Michael as threatening her control of this reclusive man, sixteen years her senior. To prevent my influence from interfering with her shifty scheme, she goaded Michael into fighting a proxy war on her behalf against me. Michael, in turn, pressured Al into acting as their foot soldier to keep me away in exchange for their enabling of his addiction. Once again, instead of helping Al recover from a progressive and terminal affliction, Michael continues “drugging” his son and cages a full-fledged adult as his pet, disregarding Al’s suffering.

Shield of distrust

It was under this backdrop I was meeting Al for lunch. I could only imagine the intensity of the brainwashing Al had been subjected to since his return to the couple’s home, and one thing was evident – it was working. Communication between Al and I became increasingly difficult and sparse. Turning the situation around would be an uphill battle. I was glad he agreed to meet but was mind full of our weakening connection.

Before sitting down, Al took my breath away by saying, “Dad says you are going to kidnap me.” I felt suddenly thrown into a bizarre world of filth and stench. Shock and rage rendered me speechless. It never ceased to amaze me how low and malicious the couple would go to destroy my relationship with Al. Sensing Al’s apprehension, I reassured him by pointing out his own strength in seeing through the absurdity of Michael’s fabrication.

Al seemed as uneasy as I was during our lunch. He ate his meal quietly with few words. What a heart-wrenching reversal had occurred to our once intimate relationship!

I recalled a conversation we had when Al was six. As part of our bedtime routine, I read him his favorite stories in a dramatic voice. One evening, when I finished, he let out a sigh like a satisfied kitten and declared, “Mommy, I want to marry you when I grow up.”

“That was so sweet!” I hugged him, “But you’ll meet a nice girl who loves you very much when you grow up.”

“I don’t want girls. I want to be with you,” he shook his head.

“When you grow up, mommy will get old and eventually pass away,” I persuaded.

“Then I’ll kill myself,” he replied with conviction.

I still remember his serious expression as if it were yesterday. My love for him remains steadfast, selfless, and unconditional. I know he loves me, too, in the depth of his heart.

The chasm between us now was created solely by virulent words spouting out from two toxic individuals. They have erected a shield of distrust that prevents Al from receiving a mother’s passionate love and care that they can never offer. What’s more diabolical is that by continuing to allow the addiction to hijack Al’s mental faculty, they corrode his judgment while ushering him down a dangerous path.

I desperately wanted Al to wise up but understood I could not rush him when he is not ready. I offered to take him on a restful getaway to allow his mind some much-needed serenity. A chill of despondence spread through my body when he declined. No words can describe a mother’s pain and despair as she watches her precious child languishing in a snake pit, and she is powerless to rescue him.   

Dreading having to say goodbye, I stretched our time together as long as I could. I didn’t know when I could see my son again. I hugged him tightly before dropping him off, wishing to transmit all my love to him through the touch of our bodies. My mind went with him as he disappeared behind the doors resembling a jailhouse with its metal bars.

Moment of awakening

I became aware of the term “parental alienation” only recently, but the phenomenon is all too familiar. It evokes memories of profound sadness and sorrow.

When I was eight, my family was suddenly divided into two camps: my mom on one side and the rest of the family on the other. I didn’t know how it started and for what reason. I knew my parents quarreled, and the arguments seemed more heated as I grew aware of people’s behaviors.

I remember my father spoke caustically about my mother, but my most vivid memory of hostility towards my mother was that of my eldest sister. She was my father’s favorite and closely aligned with him. She herded my other sister and me to my father’s side. Therefore, I also treated my mom unkindly for a vague sense of group identity.

On a cold and gloomy afternoon, my mom, sitting in a wicker chair with a bandaged hand, asked my eldest sister to pour her a cup of hot water. “Pour it yourself!” She snapped at Mom and stomped off.

Her contempt disturbed and awakened something inside me. That was Mom, who gave birth to us, spent the best years of her life caring for us, sacrificing her own aspirations and dreams, and putting up with all kinds of trials and tribulations to maintain the stability and security of a home for us. What had she done to deserve to be treated so contemptuously by her children?

I searched my memory for offenses Mom had committed and came up with nothing. Sure, she may have disciplined us a bit harshly on occasion for our benefit, but she had never hurt us on account of her self-interests or foibles. The only bad thing about Mom was my father’s accusations, which were words with no substance, reflecting only his dubious reality.

I poured a cup of hot water and brought it to my mom. I will never forget the heart-filled gratitude in her eyes when she looked at me and smiled. A feeling of profound sorrow struck me. We were expected to treat our mom with kindness and respect as her children, and yet our senseless hate campaign had made her life such a living hell that even an insignificant act of decency by her child touched off her outpouring of appreciation. I turned my head and hurried away, not wanting her to see my tears of shame.

My mom passed away shortly after I walked away from the hate campaign. The sorrow of not coming to my senses sooner has stayed with me. The only comfort was that I showed her the qualities she expected from me before her passing. 

Al demonstrated the same qualities. One of my closest friends died in an accident while I was going through the divorce. Overcome by the loss, I cried uncontrollably. Deeply affected by my grief, ten-year-old Al came up with an idea to make me feel better – he washed my car. That was the first and perhaps the only time he ever washed a car, and he had to learn to do it “on the job.”  

Even as he was besieged by anxiety and distress caused by the divorce and Michael’s arm-twisting for his loyalty, my son rose above the fray, demonstrating his superior character of love and compassion to his father’s narcissism.

Unfortunately, Al stopped responding to me soon after our lunch. I know he is facing the challenge of his life, a challenge so formidable even for an experienced man without the coercion of two parental figures.

Nevertheless, I believe his goodness and strength will prevail. He has exhibited the same capacity for critical thinking and self-inspection I developed in childhood. No matter how ferociously Michael and Potechin have tried to erase any trace of me, he remains my son fundamentally and proudly. He will find the courage to break free from the death trap the couple has constructed for him. He will spread his wings and join his peers on a journey to fulfill his potential. No one can claim him as his personal property and confine him in a cage again.  

I am waiting for my son with open arms, waiting for him to come home where he truly belongs, where his health, happiness, and future matter, where he is not used as a pawn, and where he is loved, appreciated, and supported with all the attention and resources he deserves.