Most mornings, I wake up from dreams about my daughters. It’s not that I’m an empty nester or that my kids have grown up; I haven’t lost them in a tragic accident or illness. As far as I know, they are both happy and healthy. But they don’t live with me anymore, and I haven’t seen them in over two years.
Am I still a mother? Can someone truly be a mom to kids they aren’t allowed to see or talk to? I can’t take them to school, wipe away their tears, or kiss them goodnight. I’ve missed out on countless moments of their childhood, and I guess you could say I’m a “former mom.”
When people ask if I have kids, I’m often unsure of how to respond. I usually say yes and pretend I’m a typical mom. Who would want to hear the real story? It’s not easy to admit that I lost custody after a silly argument with my ex-husband, and for the record, I’ve never harmed him or my daughters or anyone else for that matter.
Before everything changed, we had joint custody, and I was deeply involved in all aspects of their lives—PTA meetings, Girl Scouts, school events. I thrived in my role as their mom. Soon they’ll be 13 and 10—big milestones. I’ll miss celebrating these moments just like I’ve missed the last two years. Their stepmom bought my oldest her first bra, and she’s starting her period. My youngest has braces and has taken up the violin. I get occasional updates and rare photos when my mom visits them a couple of times a year. It’s bittersweet; I’m grateful for the glimpses into their lives, but it’s not enough. I long to be their mom again, not just a shadow of that role.
Every night, I dream about them. In these dreams, I often find myself in a desperate attempt to capture their attention, even if I know I might get in trouble. I hug them and touch their faces, sometimes they’re their current ages, and other times they’re babies again. I cherish these dreams, even if I wake up in an empty house.
Just a month ago, I spotted them across a parking lot purely by chance. My fiancé and I had gone to his son’s basketball game at the local middle school, and to my shock, there were my daughters walking together. My heart raced. I wanted nothing more than to rush over and embrace them. But as I reached for the car door, my fiancé stopped me. “You can’t do that,” he gently reminded me. So, I sat there, straining to catch a glimpse as they walked out of my view. I felt shattered and trembling. “They were right there,” I told him, and he could only reply, “I know…” That was the closest I’d been to them in two long years, and it was from a distance.
They didn’t notice me, and I can only wonder what they would have thought if they had. I often fantasize about running into them at places like Target or the grocery store, but we don’t shop at the same places anymore.
All I ever wanted in life was to be a mother. While other girls dreamed of becoming doctors or artists, I just wanted to raise my kids. Now, I’m engaged to a wonderful man, and sometimes I think about starting over and having children with him. I had my first child at 25, and now at 38, I worry it might be too late. Plus, how could I bring more children into the world when I can’t even see the ones I already have? It feels wrong. Yet, I miss being a mom. I miss my girls. Being a former mother is a constant ache—I feel empty, lonely, and heartbroken. I wish there were something I could do to change it. All I have left are my dreams.
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Summary
This reflection shares the poignant experience of a mother who has lost contact with her children for over two years due to custody issues. She grapples with her identity as a “former mom,” reminiscing about the joys and milestones she has missed. Despite the pain of separation, she cherishes dreams of her daughters and contemplates the complexities of motherhood while navigating her current life.