What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?

The Fight for Guardianship

That night, I stayed with my dad at his apartment. The place smelled of takeout and laundry detergent with piles of work documents scattered across the coffee table. He called his lawyer right away, pacing the small living room with his phone pressed to his ear.

I heard him talking about Munchousin by proxy, an emergency custody hearing. I didn’t understand what those words meant then, but I would learn soon enough. The next few weeks were a blur of court appearances and meetings with social workers.

The courthouse was a maze of echoing hallways and rooms that smelled like furniture polish and anxiety. Mom showed up late to the first custody hearing. Her eyes bloodshot and her words slurring slightly when she tried to explain to the judge why she deserved to have me back.

Dad sat on the other side with his new girlfriend, Melissa, who kept checking her phone and sighing loudly whenever mom spoke. The judge wasn’t impressed with either of them.

He asked about my school attendance, which had been spotty at best when I lived with mom. He asked about stable housing, which dad couldn’t really provide since he moved between apartments every few months when the rent went up.

My mom and dad said terrible things about each other. My mom claimed my dad was neglectful and didn’t believe in medical care. My dad showed the judge records of all the hospital visits my mom had taken me to, pointing out that doctors never found anything wrong with me. The stack of medical files was at least 3 in thick.

The second hearing was worse than the first. Mom brought pictures of dad from years ago when he was drinking heavily. Dad brought up mom’s boyfriend who had a criminal record. They threw accusations back and forth while I sank lower in my seat, wishing I could disappear.

I had to talk to a special person called a guardian adum. Her name was Mrs. Wilson, a middle-aged woman with silver streaked hair and reading glasses that hung from a beaded chain around her neck.

Her job was to figure out what was best for me. She asked me lots of questions about living with my mom and dad in her office filled with children’s drawings and potted plants. I tried to be honest, but I was afraid of hurting either of their feelings.

The judge, an older man with a white beard and tired eyes, ordered that I stay with my dad temporarily while they investigated my mom. My mom cried when she heard this, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. She looked at me like I had betrayed her, which made me feel awful, even though none of this was my fault.

I went home with dad that day because that’s what the temporary order said. His apartment had a pullout couch for me in the living room. Melissa made it clear it was her home, not mine.

By the way, she moved my backpack if I left it on her chair or complained about the bathroom being occupied when I took too long in the shower. Dad tried. I think he bought groceries and asked about school, but he was gone most evenings at his job at the warehouse, leaving me with Melissa, who mostly ignored me unless I was in her way.

Mom called three times that week, each time promising she was getting things together and that soon I’d be back with her. Each call ended with her crying or getting angry at Dad, even though he wasn’t on the phone.

Living with my dad wasn’t much better. He was always working, leaving me alone a lot in the apartment with frozen dinners and instructions to lock the door. When he was home, he was on the phone with his lawyer or typing angry emails to my mom, the blue light from his laptop illuminating his exhausted face late into the night.

He never asked how I felt about any of this. Sometimes he would mutter things like, “Your mother is crazy”. when he thought I couldn’t hear from my bedroom with its thin walls.

One night, I overheard my dad on the phone with someone talking about selling our family home to pay for his lawyer. His voice was strained and desperate as he discussed property values and mortgage payments.

When I asked him about it the next morning over a breakfast of cold cereal, he yelled at me for eavesdropping. It was the first time he’d ever yelled at me like that, and it scared me.

I spent the rest of the day hiding in my room, sketching in my notebook to distract myself. Things got worse when my mom showed up at my school one day during lunch period.

She wasn’t supposed to see me without supervision, but she came anyway, standing by the fence in a rumpled coat. She was crying and tried to convince me to come with her saying she had a doctor in another state who could help me.

My teacher, Miss Gonzalez, saw what was happening and called the principal who called the police. My mom was arrested right there at my school, handcuffed and placed in a police car. All the other kids saw it happen. Their faces a mixture of shock and fascination.

After that, the judge was really mad at my mom, but then something happened with my dad, too. The guardian adidam found out he had been leaving me home alone for hours while he worked, even though I was only 12.

She also discovered he had a drinking problem that was getting worse during the stress of the custody battle. I had found empty whiskey bottles hidden in the recycling bin, but hadn’t known what to say about it.

That’s when Aunt Rachel showed up. I hadn’t seen her in years. Dad’s older sister, who lived two states away. She sat quietly in the back of the courtroom, watching everything with a steady gaze that somehow made me sit up straighter.

After court, she approached me in the hallway.

“Jason,” she said, using my name like it mattered. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been around”. “I only just found out what was happening”.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get more complicated, my aunt Rachel showed up. She’s my dad’s sister, but they hadn’t spoken in years because of some old family fight over my grandparents will.

Aunt Rachel came to court one day and asked to speak to the judge. She said neither of my parents was in a position to take care of me properly right now. She stood tall in her simple blue dress, speaking clearly and confidently.

Aunt Rachel lived in a small town about an hour away. She was a kindergarten teacher with a cozy house painted yellow with white trim and a friendly golden retriever named Buddy. The judge asked if I would be willing to stay with her temporarily while my parents sorted out their issues. I nodded, not knowing what else to do.

The next day, Aunt Rachel came to Dad’s apartment. She brought me a notebook and some colored pencils, remembering from years ago that I like to draw. While Dad and Melissa argued in the bedroom about her being there, Aunt Rachel asked me questions, real questions about school and what books I liked and if I had friends.

She listened to the answers like they mattered. Before she left, she handed me a card with her phone number.

“Call me anytime,” she said. “Day or night”.

I called her 3 days later when mom showed up at dad’s apartment drunk, screaming in the parking lot that he was keeping me from her. Dad yelled back that she was unfit to parent a goldfish.

I locked myself in the bathroom and dialed Aunt Rachel’s number with shaking hands. She answered on the second ring. She didn’t tell me everything would be okay or that I shouldn’t worry. Instead, she asked practical questions.

Was I safe right now? Did I have somewhere quiet to stay until things calmed down? Did I need her to come get me?

The next court date, Aunt Rachel was there again, this time with a lawyer of her own. She filed for temporary guardianship, presenting evidence that neither of my parents was currently able to provide a stable home.

She had pictures of mom’s apartment with empty bottles everywhere, statements from my teachers about my absences and incomplete homework when I lived with mom, and documentation of dad’s frequent moves and the times he’d left me alone overnight with Melissa, who wasn’t supposed to be my caregiver, according to the temporary custody agreement.

The judge listened carefully. For the first time, someone asked me directly where I wanted to live. I couldn’t look at either of my parents when I whispered with Aunt Rachel. Mom cried and said I was betraying her.

Dad stormed out of the courtroom. Melissa hurrying after him. Aunt Rachel just put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. The temporary guardianship was granted for 6 months. I moved into Aunt Rachel’s guest room the following weekend.

She had painted it blue because she remembered I once said it was my favorite color.