I want to give my son to my ex-husband. The child has become uncontrollable, and I can no longer cope.
My son is twelve. If someone had told me ten years ago that I would even consider handing my child over to his father, I would have laughed in their face. But now I stand at the edge of an abyss, gasping for breath, drowning in helplessness, feeling as though life is slipping through my fingers. I’m sinking, and no one throws me a lifeline.
My son, Oliver, has become a stranger. He argues with me over everything, gets into fights at school, brings home things that aren’t his, and then, with a defiant grin, insists he didn’t steal—he just “borrowed” them. The phone never stops ringing—his teacher, his headmaster, other parents. Every call feels like a punch to the gut, every day like walking through a minefield.
My husband and I have been divorced for years. My mother lives just down the street in our little town near York, but she offers no help—only criticism and “wise” advice that leaves me hollow. She stops by in the evenings for half an hour, scatters judgments like confetti, and leaves, leaving me bitter. So Oliver is entirely my burden. I shout, I cry, I take away his pocket money—none of it works. He just stares at me with those insolent eyes and smirks, as if he knows I’m powerless, as if my words mean nothing.
Then came the final straw. I found a stranger’s smartphone in his bag—expensive, clearly not some cheap thing.
“Oliver, where did this come from?” I asked, drilling into him with a look equal parts fury and despair.
“Found it,” he said without blinking.
“Where?”
“On a bench.”
“What bench, for heaven’s sake? Answer me properly, you little thief!” My voice cracked. “This isn’t yours! You stole it!”
“Didn’t steal it, just took it,” he said calmly.
“And what were you planning to do with it?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just wanted to look at it.”
I choked on my rage, my blood boiling like molten lava.
“Do you have any idea how wrong this is? Tomorrow, you’re taking it back to school.”
He met my eyes with such defiance my hands shook.
“No, I’m not.”
“What do you mean, *no*? You don’t get to make the rules!” I shouted, losing control.
“I’m not taking it back.”
I broke—tears streamed down my face, but he just walked to his room as if nothing had happened, as if my tears didn’t matter.
The next day, I called his father, Daniel. My voice trembled, but I laid it all out.
“It’s about Oliver. I can’t do this anymore. He’s turned into someone I don’t know—stealing, disrespecting me. Maybe you should take him. He needs a father’s guidance. I’m terrified he’ll turn into a criminal if we don’t do something.”
Daniel was silent. Then came a heavy sigh.
“You know I can’t. I’m working late every night—no time to raise him.”
“And you think *I* have time?” I exploded. “I’m alone! Mum just blames me for failing him. You’re busy, I’m busy—who’s supposed to help me?!”
“But you’re his mother…” he started.
“And you’re his father!” I cut in. “Just as much a parent as I am!”
He muttered something about “thinking it over” and hung up. That evening, Mum came over. I dared to tell her my plan, and it was a disaster.
“Emily, have you lost your mind?” she shrieked before I’d even finished. “Give your son to his father? How could you even think that?”
“Mum, I can’t handle it. I’m exhausted.”
“Can’t handle it? Then you shouldn’t have had him! What kind of mother gives up her child?”
“Have *you* ever helped? All you do is lecture!” I snapped. “I’m carrying everything—no husband, no support, not even friends! Alone, always alone!”
She left, slamming the door. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. Maybe I *am* a bad mother. Maybe it *is* my fault Oliver’s become this way—defiant, distant, lost. But then I think—I’m only human, not made of steel. I’m tired of being both mother and father, tired of carrying this unbearable weight. Yes, I’m his mother—but Daniel is his father. Why should I bear the burden alone?
Since that day, Oliver barely leaves his room, avoids me, says nothing. I sit, phone in hand, waiting for Daniel to call. I’ve decided—if I don’t hear from him soon, I’ll ring him again. Maybe he’ll take Oliver. Maybe I’ll find strength I don’t have. I don’t know what to do. I want to save my boy, but I’m drowning too, and no one’s reaching out a hand. What am I supposed to do?