We Live in Fear of Losing Our Kids, Part 2; or: I Meet My Nightmare

Today was Monday, so Susan had the day off.  We each did errands in the morning, she got a massage, I took the kids to the doctor, to The Container store to get a thermal yogurt container for Dylan’s new school lunches, and then to Biggs.  When we got home at 2 pm, late and hungry, everyone except Susan was grumpy.  She fed us, and slowly we recouped.  We had to be back home by 5:30, since it was our date night tonight, and we really really needed to talk about money, plus we weren’t getting along too well.  It was close to three by the time lunch was over and we almost didn’t go to the pool at all, but once we got in the water I was shocked we’d ever questioned it.  Dylan and Rylie were showing Susan all their latest moves they’d just learned in swim class, and were talking over each other in their eagerness to show Susan how they could dive in the five-foot and swim--well they thought, barely I thought--to the rope.

Suddenly I realized that instead of joining us in the water, Susan had sat down close to a woman, two women really, she had nodded at a minute before.  But it was clear that one woman was the center, the other lay back, beautiful, blond, and thin, in a black strapless bathing suit, a bit removed under big sunglasses.  She looked straight, model-straight.  The other one I didn’t immediately recognize, but could tell by the intensity of Susan’s and her exchange, and by the kind, pitying slope of Susan’s back, that it was Michelle Hobbs.  (Michelle had just lost custody of her daughter to her former lesbian partner see my post about it from just a few days ago.)  We had never seen Michelle at the pool before, didn’t know she’d joined, in fact I hadn’t seen her in years, though Susan, Dylan and Rylie had seen her and her girlfriend when they stopped in at Michelle’s new pet store at Findlay Market to get fresh produce on Sundays.  They talked for a long while then when we came out of the water for kids time-out, I tried but couldn’t keep Ry away from the huddle, from Susan, so we all went over, tragedy was only four lounge chairs away.  Even though I was wet, I gave her an immediate hug, “You’re Michelle aren’t you.  I’m so sorry.”

She acknowledged both things, and we introduced our kids.  Soon Susan left, pulled away by Rylie and Dylan.  I stayed to talk. Michelle’s ex had won on appeal in the Ohio court, and she had sent out the email from a week ago, asking for any help anyone had to offer, because the ex had denied her the right to see her child ever again, since she was not the bio-mom.  They had broken up maybe three years ago, when Lucy was three.  She told me about three sets of signed documents she had, listing her as a “complete and full” co-parent in every way.  She told me about the judge who’d recused herself without explanation after a year and a half on the case, who’d already ruled once in Michelle’s favor and had found her ex “not a credible witness” as she lied about never having wanted Michelle a co-parent, despite the signed documents and the emails addressed to “Mama” and having her pick the sperm donor and being present throughout the process and at the birth and fully raising the child together for a while.  The judge had recused herself and was replaced by a judge who was certainly a friend of her ex’s family, with extensive links, who in two weeks ruled against Michelle and inserted into the record six statements saying that the ex “had never considered Michelle to be a parent at any time” that had no basis in the interviews or other records of the case, but as Michelle sadly but insistently told me (as she told anyone, anyone might be *the* person who could help her) would now be part of the official record. 

“It —this whole thing—has really,” she glanced at her girlfriend, trying to mitigate but be honest, “affected our relationship too…” —she gestured with her hands “—see even now hear I am talking about it instead of——” 

“It’s okay honey, it’s fine,” says Amanda, still leaning back, not talking but watching both of us, paying attention to the conversation.

“This place,” says Michelle, meaning the swimming pool.  “It was a lot, too much, for us to buy the membership really, but we bought it for Lucy.  We knew this would be a great place for the summer for her, for us.”  She looks right at me, she takes off her sunglasses, and I try to look her in the eyes with care and without crying.  “This is where we came, last Sunday, for our last time together.  Right here.  That”—she points to an elevated porch where we had Dylan’s birthday party last year—is where we are supposed to have Lucy’s birthday party.”  I am crying now, tension deep in my throat.  Trying to honor her loss with my presence, with my tears, by staying, even though it’s hard.  I am a nonbiological mother.  I am crying again right now. 

Not that breakups happen, but that children lose their mothers entirely, and mothers lose their children, through the homophobia of their partners, through the homophobia of our government.