After meeting with his father, my son told me he doesn’t love me anymore.
When my husband and I divorced two years ago, I thought we’d parted civilly—no screaming, no tantrums. We just weren’t happy together. I never stopped him from seeing our son; in fact, I always said a child needs his father. If he wanted to visit, fine. If he wanted to take him for weekends, even better—whatever made Ethan happy.
Ethan is seven now. Half-term had just begun, and his father insisted he spend it with him. I didn’t object. I was glad, even—thought it would do them good to bond.
But after a few days, I noticed something off. I’d call, but Ethan never answered. His father or grandmother would pick up instead, always with the same excuse: *Ethan’s outside playing. He can’t come to the phone.*
It set off alarms. I’m his mother. I have a right to hear his voice, to know how he is. Why were they keeping him from me? What weren’t they saying?
When Ethan came home, I knew immediately—something was wrong. He wasn’t himself. Quiet, empty-eyed, lips pressed tight. Not tired. *Hurt.*
I knelt beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Ethan, love, are you alright? I missed you.” I wanted to pull him close.
But he jerked away, eyes fixed on the floor.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
Have you ever heard your heart break? I did then. Four cold, deliberate words—like a stranger had spoken them.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Later that night, I tried again, gently. And then the truth spilled out.
His father and grandmother had filled his head with poison—*She’s cruel. She ruins everything. She wants us to suffer. It’s all her fault.* They twisted a seven-year-old’s trust into a weapon.
My hands shook as I listened. How could they do this? My own child. Their family. I’d *never* poisoned Ethan against them—never let our pain touch him.
But they? They stole his faith in me.
Now, I don’t let Ethan see his father. Yes, it’s drastic. But I won’t let them shatter him again.
I’m his mother. And I won’t surrender him to people who plant hatred so carelessly. Let them learn to be decent. *Then* we’ll talk about second chances.
