“Time, whose tooth gnaws away at everything else, is powerless against the truth.” – Thomas Huxley

The quote above has become one of my favorites because I am sure that, in the end, the truth will be revealed. I also know that some lies are published so consistently and convincingly that it can be difficult to see what is true through the thick fog of deception, and there is no way of knowing how long it may take before the truth is clearly visible. It was for seven long years that such a fog managed to keep my son away from me.

My story is not uncommon. I know many parents who have lost, or fear losing, their children to a lie, and that is why I have decided to share this story.

After parting ways with my abusive husband, it wasn’t long before he went on the offensive. He began to offer a fictional story about our marriage, to plant seeds of doubt about my character, my commitment, and my faith in the minds of those who are willing to listen. He also used the time he spent with our four children to try to undermine my credibility in his young eyes. Although he urged them to keep secrets, they sometimes hesitantly questioned me about the damning falsehoods about me that his father had shared.

The woman who described our children was someone I did not know, and there were times when I found myself in the awkward position of having to correct our children’s understanding. It was heartbreaking knowing that our children had been put in a position where they had to choose who or what to believe. For the most part, I was sure that the significant contrast between our old home life and the new life that we had come to appreciate was evidence enough.

Our second oldest son, Kyle, had always been his father’s favorite. Kyle never sought the title of “the chosen one,” nor was his status a secret among children. It was never discussed; it just was. So it came as no surprise that after the divorce was final, when Kyle was around 13 years old, his father began spending most of his free time with him. And even though the essential battles were over, another insidious battle continued his rage. Kyle’s father used their time together to confer on our little boy how many ways he had failed him and what a poor wife he had been, to convince Kyle and confront me.

Almost every time he spent a day or two with his father, Kyle used to return home hostile and ready for battle. Sometimes he tried to relieve her obvious stress, but instead of talking, he preferred to argue. Knowing what was going on behind the scenes, I decided to acknowledge the difficulties of divorce and reminded him that he didn’t have to choose one parent over the other; could have both. My efforts to reach him didn’t make much of a difference, but at least he knew how I felt about the situation.

I also recognized that his father was probably more fun. They spent time together watching soccer and their favorite movies with pizza and soda. They can spend an afternoon buying CDs, listening to music, or attending an occasional concert. When Kyle came home, it was my job to make sure he did his homework and chores and brushed his teeth before going to bed. The contrast didn’t bother me; I knew the kids needed both of us, and I accepted my role as little fun. And let’s face it; The harsh reality of Monday through Friday is generally going to be a tougher job than the simple pleasures of eating junk food and sleeping late. We still had our own family movie nights and birthday parties and went on day trips and mini vacations, but Kyle often chose to excuse himself from outings and events with any of us whom his father sarcastically referred to as “those people.” .

Over time, Kyle’s hostility toward me increased. Not only was he ready for a fight, but he seemed to enjoy any opportunity to argue, humiliate me, or shed his weight. It was as if Kyle had taken on the role of his abusive father, and while I sought to maintain discipline and provide a healthy contrast, the most worrying thing was that Kyle might become like his father.

Sometimes Kyle’s anger would flare up and he would point his finger at me for divorcing his father. “You had no reason to divorce him. If it weren’t for you, we would still be a family! Why did you do it?” asked to know. Everything about me wanted to tell the truth: the emotional beatings he had received, the heartbreaking lack of integrity from his father, and everything he had endured in an effort to provide for our entire family. But the sordid truth was more than any young man needed to know. I bit my tongue and told Kyle that I just needed to trust that I did what I believed was best for our family. But that wasn’t good enough for Kyle, and his resentment towards me continued to simmer.

After I remarried, Kyle tried to maintain his position as the new man in the house, but it wasn’t long before Kyle’s abusive tendencies forced my husband to put Kyle in his place. Kyle saved his outbursts for those times when Doug wasn’t home, but now we all had backup when we needed it.

One fall night, Kyle decided he was being treated unfairly after a bad day, and I had the audacity to remind him to empty the dishwasher. A couple of hours later she went to live with her dad. There were no screams or slamming doors. No note, no warning, no explanation. Crushed by his decision, I pondered in that moment if he had been lost forever. I could only pray that it wasn’t. I had to let Kyle go and pray that he found out the truth on his own, that he didn’t choose to follow in his father’s footsteps.

I didn’t hear from Kyle for weeks. He invited me out for coffee one night and we just talked about ordinary things, daily routines, school, work, and his siblings. Part of me wanted to beg him to come home, but I held my head up and didn’t cry or beg or ask why. When we parted ways, I hugged him and confirmed my love for him, simply grateful that he hadn’t completely left me out.

As the months went by we got together from time to time. During our conversations, Kyle never complained about his father, never shared anything meaningful about their life together, and I didn’t ask. Then at one of our meetings, Kyle told me that he was ready to go home. But, the reality was that the rest of us had come to enjoy our home without him living there. We now had a home where there was no drama, no hostility, no continual outbursts of anger. The rest of us had come to enjoy the peace that we now enjoy. So, I told Kyle that we weren’t ready for him to come home. He was clearly surprised by my answer. I’m sure you assumed that I would welcome you home enthusiastically as if nothing had happened and that we would pick up where we left off. Objective no.

When we parted ways that day, he was bleaker than I’d seen him in the past and probably a little hurt. But I needed to make sure he understood what coming home meant not just for him, but for the whole family; that no matter how much he clung to his perception of being right, he was still wrong. She needed to know that he fully understood that his behaviors needed to change. What he didn’t know was that the fog had been dissipating in Kyle’s life, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

One night a few days later the phone rang. When I answered, Kyle was on the other end of the line crying and hysterical. He said that he had to get out of his father’s house, that his father had been infuriating him and cursing him, insulting him and preventing him from leaving, and that it was not the first time. He begged me to go find him and told me that if I didn’t, he would run away. I knew I couldn’t leave him in an abusive situation so I asked him where his dad was and Kyle told me he was asleep. I talked to Doug and we agreed that we would meet up with the other kids in the morning, discuss the situation, and then I would call him and tell him what to do. He begged me and said ‘no’, that I had to go look for him at that moment or he was going to escape. Despite the stress of the situation, I calmly said, “Kyle, this is your moment. You have to decide right now whether or not you are going to trust me. All I need you to say now is, ‘Okay, Mom.'” . It took many seconds as I prayed with all my heart that he would make the right decision, until he finally said the words I needed to hear: “Okay, Mom.”

The next morning, we all quickly agreed that Kyle had to go home, with the understanding that his behavior towards the whole family should be based on respect. I made the call to Kyle, he agreed to our terms, and the five of us immediately got into our truck to go find Kyle and take him home with his things.

After returning home, Kyle continued trying to have a relationship with his father, who was still working to fill Kyle’s head with half truths and falsehoods. But slowly, Kyle began to see the inconsistencies for himself. He witnessed the self-centered lifestyle his father had chosen, heard him brag about his lewd activities while he and I were married, and ultimately became the target of his father’s abuse.

It wasn’t until Kyle was 20 that I came home from work on a hot summer afternoon to find him sitting on the floor in front of our front door, his back against the wall, chatting with Doug. Kyle was obviously distraught, and my heart fought the fear of what might have happened to him. When I got closer, my husband told me that Kyle needed to talk to me and he walked in. I took Doug’s place and shyly asked him what was going on. Kyle finally looked at me and spoke.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” she said through tears.

“Why,” I asked him. “What happened?”

“I was wrong, Mom. I know it wasn’t your fault. For seven years I was mean to you and the rest of the family. And all this time I was wrong.”

We both stood up and I held the son I thought I had lost so many years before. I told him that I loved him and that everything was going to be okay. Kyle wrapped his arms around me and wept the tears of a painful truth finally understood, tears of guilt born of ignorance, tears of humility and pain for all that was lost, honest tears that melted the cruel wall of deception that had parted. U.S …

for seven

length

years.

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