Our divorce initially allowed alternate weekends. But in May 2023, he collected our nineteen-month-old and refused to bring her back.
Sunday passed; his calls went to voicemail. By Monday evening, I sat on my kitchen floor beside a detective and my sisters, unaware of my baby’s whereabouts.
Nine days later, officers located them in a Fort Smith, Arkansas, motel. He’d told the clerk I was dead.
He later claimed he only wanted time with her. He admitted custodial interference, received probation, and forfeited unsupervised visitation. Thereafter, he could visit alternate Saturdays at his mother Sheila’s home, provided she stayed in the room.
I objected to those terms. The court approved Sheila anyway, and for three years I’d believed it was working.
Ruth knew the history. On hearing it, she listened silently before saying, “Well, he won’t get past me.”
She’d never treated Nora as a problem inherited with her son’s marriage. She rearranged her Tuesdays since we needed help and since she liked having her granddaughter there. My trust in her was absolute.
