Long time readers of my column will know I am on the losing side of a brutal, seemingly endless divorce. I am also suffering parental alienation, which means my two beautiful daughters are suffering it too. That pain is greater than anything a loving father should be expected to bear.
Thanks to an initial court decision which makes Kramer vs Kramer look father- friendly, my contact with them is limited to five hours every other Sunday. In real terms, that’s roughly one percent of their lives. No overnight stays. No holidays. The court has effectively stripped me of the right to ever read them a bedtime story or tuck them in at night.
The judge granted me phone calls, monthly updates, and involvement in my daughter’s education and extra-curricular activities – then did nothing when those rights were repeatedly blocked for nearly a year. When I challenged this negligence, the judge (in her infinite wisdom) saw fit to jail me for 15 days for “contempt of court”.
Our Sundays together follow a familiar pattern. We meet at 11am at my office, because their mother refuses to bring them to my home. We catch up and play some games, before a quick lunch. Then we have just three precious hours – from one until four, before the handover. My rule is simple: we eat whatever they want to eat; we go wherever they want to go, as far as my moth-eaten wallet allows.
The gaslighting which accompanies this is jaw-dropping:
“Why do you always meet them in the office?”
“Because you refuse to drop them off anywhere else.”
“Why do you take them to dangerous places?”
“Because they wanted to go to the park / swimming pool / waterpark.”
“Why don’t you take them to other cities?”
“Because, thanks to you I’ve only got three hours with them!”
My daughters are eight and five. For understandable reasons, Isabella (the youngest) is particularly susceptible to the alienating behaviour of her mother. Over the months, she has become increasingly distant to me: wiping away kisses, refusing hugs, and hiding when I try to take photos of her. This is all under instruction, and, despite being provided irrefutable evidence of this, the court hasn’t deigned to intervene.
Most days, the poison works.
Today was different.
It began just as usual. Emily (my eldest) hugged me upon arrival, and held my hand. Isabella refused. While this is like a knife through my heart, I try not to make a big deal of it because I do not want the girls to feel tortured with the impossible task of pleasing both parents.
For some reason, I asked Isabella if she wanted to play Monopoly (her big sister was otherwise engaged), and she said “Yes”. The moment the board was unveiled, it was as if the past two years had melted away. Isabella started talking to me excitedly, in English – something her mother has actively discouraged, harming her own daughter’s future just to spite me. She impressed me with her counting, and chose characters for us both. Thankfully, the Monopoly Gods saw to it that she got all the luck in the world, and it wasn’t necessary for me to cheat to let her win. Isabella gave Daddy money when he couldn’t pay his bills, and even let me off on occasion (something I would never have done for my own mother!).
For one golden hour, the connection was back. It is impossible for me to convey with mere words the euphoria I felt, and how deeply healing that hour was for both of us.
As the day rolled on, things just got better and better. While the girls ate a special kind of chicken and rice that they love, I didn’t eat anything as it’s not really my thing. Isabella, noticing this, cut up some of her chips and made sure I ate them. Then when we went outside to the car, she insisted on sitting in the front seat “next to Daddy”. She has never done this before.
The girls wanted to go into town to an arcade, so we did. Luckily, they both won a toy, and Isabella posed for a photograph; unable to contain her happiness. We then went to a cafe on Isabella’s recommendation. We ordered drinks and cakes, and Isabella took charge of taking me round to show me all the nice parts: the fountain outside, the comfy sofas upstairs, the pot plants on the secret balcony. She even insisted on chaperoning me to the bathroom, and waiting for me outside. She posed for photographs with me. She held my hand all the time.
I honestly thought I was going to have a heart attack.
With just under an hour left, we bought some snacks from a convenience store and headed down by the river so that the girls could ride their scooters. They often meet their friends there, and while this was equally the case today, Isabella couldn’t resist riding back to check on me as I sat watching them. At the end she picked a dandelion, made a wish and blew it. She then handed it to me.
I still have it in my car, where it shall remain forever.
It was a wrench letting them go, but I drove the girls home just after 4pm. I took back the summer clothes, the sunglasses, and the lip balms I had bought them – not because I wanted to, but because the mother refuses to provide them with appropriate clothing on days out with me; refusing even to give them sun hats or sun cream when it is necessary. However, the girls decided they wanted to keep the My Melody sun visors they had been wearing. Ten seconds after the final hug and disappearing round the corner to mother, Emily returned carrying both the sun visors. Apparently, they weren’t needed.
A little disappointed, I started to get in the car. At that point I heard the cry “Daddy!” I turned around, and saw Isabella running towards me. “My hat!” She cried, with tears in her eyes. I smiled and gave it back to her as she cuddled me. Nothing in the world was going to stop her taking her hat home, and I knew what that meant. She didn’t want to be separated from Daddy.
Most days are not good days. But, thanks to Isabella, today emphatically was. Still, I am under no illusions that this will turn out to be some kind of wendepunkt. The poison of alienation is enormously potent. If I have to endure 100 bad days for just one today however, then so be it. I now know my daughter’s soul has not been destroyed; she is still there, my little girl. And tonight, just for once, I will go to bed with a smile on my face. And hope, in my heart.
Frank Haviland is the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West and The Frank Report, which you are welcome to subscribe to.
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I struggle to believe (but I do) that any mother could be so cruel to her children as to deny them a healthy relationship with their father, as is happening to you, Frank. She’s the one who demanded a divorce so instead of being obstructive at every turn, she should be doing everything possible to make the situation at least tolerable for the children – who come across as beautiful, loving little girls.
This will sound like a statement from the PM after a terrorist attack (maybe appropriate enough!) but my thoughts and prayers are with you Frank as you suffer this dreadful pain of separation from your girls – at least now, it seems you have something really good upon which to build for the next while. For what it’s worth, it is my considered opinion that you are dealing with this perfectly. Your approach during your visit with your daughters leaves absolutely nothing to be desired – and I’m sure that, when they are older, they will leave their mother in no doubt as to their opinion of her evil attempts to destroy their relationship with you.
As for the courts and other authorities – disgraceful.