A judge might ask me a very simple question: “Mr. Ahmad. If you love your children, as is your claim, then why do you not telephone them?” My response would be a trifle long-winded, so I hope he’ll have access to this web site if the question arises.
I used to call often. Sometimes I would make over 40 calls a day. Of course, they would be ignored, or diverted to voicemail. There would invariably be an excuse as to why the calls weren’t answered, returned or acknowledged. Sometimes, the ex’s mobile would be left at home. (I have her on record as saying to someone she loved so much that she shed tears over him - a “privilige” never afforded me, that “my mobile is with me 24 hours”). More often than not - “my ringer was on silent”. This contradicted other claims that “I’ve got a new phone and don’t know how to change the ringer signal”. Other times it would be “I’m no longer at your beck and call”. (Fair enough, at least that’s honest!). Mostly though, I would later discover, and she would confirm this occasionally, that she would be somewhere and she wouldn’t want me to know where. This happened Friday after Friday, when the children were supposed to be with me, which of course was doubly infuriating. Then there was the “I’m not made of money” line. Funny that she didn’t have a few pence for the kids to call me, but she had no trouble spending £2000 a year on calling everyone else in the world. I mean just about every country that had friend or relative, she’d be in constant contact. And still is no doubt. Not that’s she’d admit it. And she’d be convincing too!
The children have been instructed to lie to me. They have admitted as much. Whilst I’ve told them that I despise lying, I have also told them that in this situation, it is understandable and I won’t place them under undue pressure to reveal their whereabouts, I’m only interested in their well-being.
So, tired of being ignored, especially on those days that we had a prior arrangement that the children would be with me, I asked the girls to call me when they could. Eventually, their mother, tired of me trying to get through and threatening her with legal action if she didn’t let me see my children, allowed the girls to call me.
So now I wait. And wait.
I do still call, but I’m put off by having to get past the troll. You remember the story of the troll right? So you know what I”m saying. Whenever I get to speak with the girls, they’re guarded. They “mmm” a lot. A trick they’ve picked up from their mum to suggest that someone who shouldn’t hear, will hear, and that therefore they are sworn to silence, secrecy and lying. It’s awful for them. They can’t talk to me even when they want to. And by the time they see me, the moment has gone, and they have time to cover up the pre-existing situation with more lies.
I have tried to be adult and make arrangements in a civilised way. I only become confrontational when my wits are at their end. This, despite my vituperative posts, doesn’t happen very often. When it does, she capitalises on it big time and uses it against me, turning the kids, especially my eldest against me.
Now what can my daughters do? Studies show that when mothers beat their children, the children still snuggle up to them for comfort. Where else can they go? Whenever I put the kids to bed, it’s on a positive note, with reinforcement, love, songs that I make up for them spontaneously, stories and fatherly advice. My youngest usually has a string of questions which I patiently answer. When the mother puts them to bed, it’s with screaming, shouting, swearing and belittling. And maybe more. I just don’t know now. That’s how it was before. And I have absolutely no reason to suspect that anything has changed.
The hardest thing is that despite my pain, despite the frustration, despite having to wait…and wait…. I have to be extremely patient with the girls and not push them about not taking my side. Sometimes, I’m not so good at this.
Case in point. Recently, during a half term in late October when the children were supposed to be with me, my access was, as usual, cancelled without any notice. My kids were taken to my oldest friend’s house for the weekend without my knowledge. My friend should really have told me beforehand. I shouldn’t have had to find this out from the hapless harridan as a taunt at the last minute. She’s great at that - worming her way into everyone’s affection with her Mary Poppins act. I felt brutally let down. Double-buggery. Pain like you will never know unless you’re one of the dads in the same boat.
So my weekend is fucked. My kids aren’t with me. They’re at my oldest friend’s house. He tried to explain. In fact, he tried to make it seem like it was my fault for being so sensitive. He tried to minimse the damage. But it was too late. What made it worse is that months before, he had invited me over casually. “You must come over with the kids for a weekend”. “Sure - I’d love to - just let me know when’s good for you”. Months later, through his wife, the ex gets to nab my spot. And that’s it. Those friends are no longer mine. They sided with the enemy. Thing is - he knows that. Deep down. He knows that. I told him how she’d hurt me. But he simply will never understand just what an act of betrayal it was. I tried every psychological trick to justify his actions and to minimise the impact it had on my pride. “It was all done through the women” and “He wasn’t even there much” and “he doesn’t know what’s going on” and “It’s not his fault”. But he was my oldest friend and all he had to do was pick up the fucking phone. Any of my friends would have afforded me that courtesy. The last thing a father who has been denied his children again wants to hear from his oldest friend is “look, we’re friends, so they’re my children too”. No they’re not. They’re my children. But I think he meant well. And there was no conspiracy, but I that didn’t change the way I feel and friends should be more sensitive.
So I don’t get called by them on the Saturday. Eventually, I run out of patience and call at about 11p.m. I got through eventually. The mother was out of breath. She’s always out of breath when she knows she’s in the wrong. I spoke to my girls. I tried, I really tried to be ok. But I couldn’t do it. I asked why I didn’t get called. I made a jibe about how they were at “my friend’s house”. My eldest, who has a really fucking bad case of Stockholm Syndrome, retorted agitatedly “they’re not just your friends, they’re Mama’s friends too you know”. I rung off shortly after, I was in a mild huff, my eldest was in a big huff and then slightly upset.
I called back shortly after, racked with guilt and I explained to her that I’d always love her, that I wasn’t angry with her (she thought I was angry with her, bless), and I asked her if she’d like me to sing her one of her favourite lullabies. So I started singing. And I couldn’t hold back the tears. I was sobbing half-way through like a kid and I had to apologise to my eldest and hang up. That was the only time my daughter has ever heard me cry. And I will never let her hear me cry again.
Now you have a tiny, infitessimally small idea of why I don’t call and why I wait. And wait.
