Most mornings, I awaken from dreams about my children. My daughters. I wouldn’t call myself an empty nester; they aren’t grown up yet. I haven’t faced the tragedy of losing them due to an accident or illness. As far as I know, they are both safe and sound.
Yet, they don’t reside with me. It’s been two and a half years since I last saw them. Am I still a mother? Can you truly be a mother to children you’re not permitted to see, speak to, or engage with in their daily lives? The list of experiences I’ve missed out on is endless. No school drop-offs, no wiping away their tears, no birthday celebrations, and no witnessing their growth—one could say I’ve become a “former mother.”
When people inquire if I have kids, I often find myself at a loss for words. Most of the time, I simply affirm that I do and pretend to fit the mold of a typical mom. The truth is too complicated for casual conversations. I certainly wouldn’t share that I lost custody over a petty disagreement with my ex-husband, David. Just to clarify, I’ve never laid a hand on him or anyone else.
Before everything unraveled, we shared joint custody. I was deeply involved in every facet of my daughters’ lives—PTA meetings, dance recitals, school events, and their everyday routines. I thrived in my role as their mother.
In a few months, they’ll be turning 13 and 10. Major milestones are coming up. I’ll miss out on the transition to teenagehood for my oldest and the double digits for my youngest. Their stepmom bought my eldest her first bra. She’s started her period and has likely surpassed my height. Meanwhile, my youngest got braces and begun playing the violin. I get the occasional updates and rare snapshots when my mother visits them twice a year. While it’s nice to see their faces, it’s simply not enough. I yearn to be their mom again, not just a former mother.
Every night, my dreams follow a familiar pattern. I often find myself in a place where I am desperately trying to get their attention, knowing I might face consequences. I embrace them, feeling their soft faces against my hands. Sometimes they appear as they are now, other times as younger versions or even as babies. These dreams fill me with warmth, even if I wake up alone in an empty house.
Just a month ago, I spotted them across a parking lot by chance. My fiancé and I had gone to a local middle school to watch his son play basketball on a Saturday. There was no reason for my daughters to be there, yet there they were, walking side by side towards the parking lot. My heart soared. I instinctively wanted to race over to them and hold them tightly. But my fiancé stopped me, saying, “You can’t do that.” I sat there, straining to see them as they disappeared from view, shaking and devastated. “They were right there,” I murmured, and he could only respond with a sympathetic “I know.” That moment was the closest I had been to them in two years, and it was merely from across a busy parking lot.
They didn’t notice me. I often fantasize about running into them at places like Target or the grocery store. But I’ve changed my shopping habits, and we don’t frequent the same stores anymore.
All I ever wanted in life was to be a mother. While others dreamed of becoming doctors, artists, or dancers, my ambition was to be a mom.
Now, I’m engaged to a wonderful man and contemplate the idea of starting anew and having children with him. I had my eldest when I was 25, and I’m now 38. It feels like it might be too late to embark on motherhood again. Plus, how could I justify bringing new children into the world when I don’t even see the ones I have? That doesn’t seem fair. But I miss being a mom. I miss my daughters. Living as a former mother is painful. I feel an emptiness, a loneliness, and a heartache that lingers constantly. I wish there were something I could do to change my situation. All I have left are my dreams.
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In summary, navigating life as a former mother is challenging and filled with longing. The absence of my daughters has left a void, revealing the depths of my love and desire to be part of their lives.
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