Mourning The Loss Of My Children

It is just ten years since I last had any contact with my young son from my second marriage. Sadly his mother chose to move country and take him with her without my knowledge or permission, which is actually illegal. She effectively kidnapped him. The way it was done was scurrilous, to say the least.

For some time I had been half expecting something like that to happen. Back in the Spring of 2014, when my youngest son was still a twelve-year-old minor, a fraudulent solicitor tried to trick me into giving up my son. He prepared papers he claimed were to pass custody of my son over to me as his client, my ex-wife had decided to seek work in England.

In his office, he simply thrust the blank last page of the document and ordered me to sign it. I refused, telling him that I wanted to read it first.

“Ah, it’s in Spanish, I’m afraid. I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“That’s ok, I’m fluent in Spanish, didn’t she tell you?” I replied.

“No, err, let me read it to you, it’ll be quicker,” he said.

“NO! I want to read it. No read, no sign. Get it?” I insisted.

“But we haven’t got time, senor,” he blustered.

“Why not? What’s the hurry?” I said.

“Well, she’s leaving for England in a few days,” he opined.

“Not my problem,” I said sternly.

At that point, he exploded and started to thump his desktop and curse at me.

“You bastard, you said you would sign the other day, sign it motherfucker and stop messing me about.”

“Let me read it and I’ll sign it if it says what was agreed. I’m a quick reader, it’ll only take a minute.,” I said calmly.

“No!” he bellowed. “Why do you want to fuck me about and goad me in this way.”

By this point, it was perfectly clear he had something to hide and was frustrated at not getting his way. I suspect my ex had told him I would roll over like the sucker she took me for. In the end, I calmly stood up and walked out.

It was sometime after that highly disagreeable meeting I caught sight of a copy of the papers he had lodged in the courts, unsigned by me. As I started to read the document it became clear why the guttersnipe hadn’t wanted me to read it. It was full of the most appalling lies about me and my son.

The document was obviously concocted by the scumbag and my ex and basically said that I had said I did not love my son and accepted that he did not love me. It said that I totally agreed to give up all contact with my son and gave his mother permission to leave the country with him. It also told the blatant lie that I was an alcoholic, exaggerating something my son had told her. He had said that he had seen me drinking a glass of wine with my meal. I never knew one glass made an alcoholic.

After the solicitor incident, she disappeared to England for the rest of the Spring and part of the Summer, instructing her family to not let me see my son.

In the meantime, I reported the solicitor and got him banned from practice for three months. In my view, it should have been for life, not least of all because I asked around and it was not his first rodeo pulling a stunt like that.

Soon it was the school holidays and in July and August, I was entitled to two weeks with my son. From a distance, my ex told me she wanted our son to be with her family for the first two weeks of July as her turn, and that she had booked my son on a two-week scouting trip for the last two weeks in July, which she insisted I pay for.

She said she also wanted my son for the first two weeks of August and I could have him for the second two weeks of that month. As it turned out, the only contact I had with my son for the whole Summer was picking him up from his grandma’s house and dropping him off at the Scouts. I also got to pick him up from the Scouts two weeks later to drop him off back at his Grandma’s house for his two weeks with his mother. After dropping I'm off I never saw him ever again.

When it came to my two weeks in the middle of August I telephoned him to ask at what time he would be ready for me to collect.

“You can’t pick me up Dad, I’m not there,” he said.

“Where are you then?”

“I’m in England, Dad.”

“Where in England?”

He asked his mother if could he tell me where they were. She said no and the line went dead. That was almost the last time I ever spoke to the boy. The following Christmas he called me on the sly. In a whisper, he said, Dad? It’s me, Isaac.” His mother walked into the room and cut the line. That was the last I heard of him.

It is now ten years since all of that happened. I did try to get the Spanish and British authorities to help me get my son back, but my ex’s lies won the day. I hung around, living in the south of Spain for six more years, ever hopeful that one day my son would return, even if it was only to visit his Grandma. I never saw him once.

Over the years I moved on in terms of meeting my present wife, who I got married with in 2017. In 2020, Covid came and I was taken seriously ill with something called PMR/GCA, and the Spanish health service refused to treat me to find out what was wrong with me. So I was compelled to move to Japan, where I did get the treatment I needed, and not only for the PMR/GCA. The Japanese doctors discovered during attempts to diagnose what was wrong with me that I had also had a silent heart attack and a mini-stroke. I have been here in Japan ever since, under the Japanese medical profession’s amazing care.

I sometimes think about my son, who is now 22 going on 23. I wonder why he hasn't sought me out. I guess if he was told what was written in that document drawn up by his mother and that scumbag solicitor about me not wanting any more to do with him, I shouldn’t be too surprised.

Last year I did once more make the effort to contact Isaac through my eldest son Elliot, who I had also lost contact with because of his mother, my first ex. I knew for a fact that the two boys had contact as I had seen photos of them together on Facebook. Elliot declined to put me in touch with his sibling saying that he did not want to do anything to cause the boy to have any mental problems. What on Earth that means I do not know. Shortly after that, I cut contact with Elliot, not wanting to have an adverse effect on anybody's mental health.

So here I am, childless. It is as if they have all died, and yet they haven’t. It’s sad, but it seems there is nothing I can do about it, it is what it is. Over the years well-meaning friends have said, “No worries, mate, one day they will come looking for you.” I don’t think so. I think they are happy to be out of my life. I don’t know why. I loved and cared for them all with every ounce of my being. I guess the poison they have all been maliciously fed about me was just too strong.

Most of the time I try not to think about the past too much by keeping busy writing. Sometimes I wonder what I would say if they did suddenly turn up. I feel like that for a very good reason. Even as adults, they will be quizzed about me by their respective mothers and any snippets of information about me, where I live, who I am with, and what I am doing with myself, will be twisted out of all recognition to hurt me all over again.

I am so done with histrionic family dramas and live blissfully in peace and harmony with my present lovely wife. There is no way I could allow that ex-wife (times two) narcissistic poison to ruin the good life I now have. I think the best I could manage in terms of conversation would be restricted to “Hello, how are you, great, me too, goodbye.” That would be me being cautious, but it would be twisted into me being rude. Oh well, that's life I suppose.