A second life, haunted by silence, paused to remember the first but could not. In the company of only fictitious characters, an actual sound, although quite rhythmic, called for Max's wandering attention. Yet, in truth, it brought no mercy, as blank sheets of rain reflected the cruelty of a dreaded writer's block.

Driven by a nagging sweet tooth, he ventured into the dreary night, alone with the fears of an unknown tomorrow. Downtrodden with unpaid bills and the harsh judgments of those who did not share his vision, one coffee roll replaced the comfort of financial security. Instant gratification! Then, a glimpse of many yesterdays appeared.

In a booth, two young lovers made love through penetrating stares, both unaware of Max's curious presence. Envious, almost saddened, he realized that only half of the picture was portrayed.

He sat alone, not by his own choice, but perhaps the choice of fate. The pursuit of a dream, any dream, required strength and great courage. And if not supported, this dream would surely die at the first sign of darkness. Such dreams, held in the soul of a writer, forced change. In turn, it called for sacrifice and in the end, an eerie solitude. Again, for Max, perhaps it was the only path, as only the characters of an overactive imagination could possibly make the impact that he wished upon the world.

Heading back to a blank computer screen, Max's mind was still threatened by instability. Yet, his soul, the very soul in which his dream lived, was reminded that his first life, which had vanished since the birth of his dream, actually made reality too much for his lover to bear. "It's been a long road," he muttered to himself, "but in the end, I will make a difference. I have to!"

Starting at the place that meant most, Max thought about Aubrey. He'd lost many things in his life, but to not be able to tuck his little girl in every night seemed inhumane. Since she could speak, Aubrey called Max her "bestest friend." She had just turned eight, but she still believed her Dad was the strongest, smartest, most handsome man in the world. He'd always been her hero and she was always his little princess.

At his computer, he fought to capture his feelings and explain his truths to Aubrey. In the meantime, perhaps he could help others understand the harsh trials of single fatherhood? Perhaps he could even let other dads know that they didn't suffer alone? He wrote:

~~~

My Reward, My Punishment… My Daughter
by Max Evans
© 2000

Several long years ago, I fell head-over-heels in love.

"Congratulations!" the doctor exclaimed. "You have a healthy baby girl!" Overwhelmed, I took her in my arms and carefully inspected the fragile, squirming gift. Ten fingers, ten toes and the wail of a siren made my eyes fill with tears. She was beautiful, absolutely perfect, and the endless possibilities for the future washed over me like a magical tidal wave. I cried for the dreams we'd share together and the lessons I was anxious to impart. I was sure that this girl was my reward for every good intention I'd ever had. What I didn't realize, however, was that our dreams were solely contingent upon the success of my marriage…

It's been said that most relationships don't end in a sudden burst of anger or betrayal. Rather, like a panting dog, love collapses exhausted at the base of walls that can no longer be hurdled. In my case, with my daughter still in diapers, "irreconcilable differences" escorted me from my comfortable recliner into a world of living torment.

Though equally hurt, we decided to act like real adults and "do what was in the best interest of our child." This, I discovered, would prove impossible, as "the best interest of our child" was as different in our minds as our ideas for saving the marriage. Almost instantly, my newly estranged wife considered our daughter her closest ally and determined that she and the girl were a package deal. She couldn't see the separation. My daughter was hers and if I wasn't with her, then I was merely an outsider. In essence, if she and I were to be separated, so were my daughter and I. The nightmare had begun…

While our innocent baby girl sang along with Barney, my wife and I went to court, an intimidating place designed to bring justice to criminals; a horrifying place where truth can prove as rare as an attorney willing to tell it. At 150 dollars an hour and in no hurry to resolve our differences, both lawyers muttered half-truths, while a stranger dressed in black robes allowed nearly fifteen minutes to decide our future. I panicked and cleared my throat… I was swiftly threatened into silence.

Before it started, it was over. Society's views would inevitably dictate the outcome: My new ex-wife was a little girl, a victim who cried more easily, while relying on the maternal bonds (we all cherish) to bring her victory. I, on the other hand, was naturally bigger, nothing more than the breadwinner, who unfortunately represented the same gender that historically abandoned its kids. With nothing for me to do but watch, my entire world was slowly dismembered, piece-by-bloody-piece.

With no apologies and even less compassion, the judge issued a punishment harsher than any prison term, while the haunting crack of the gavel sealed the cruel deal: I could take my daughter on loan, two nights a week and every other weekend! I was in shock! I'd heard the brutal rumors, read the frightening stories, but still, I couldn't believe it. Yet, there I stood: A man who was being criminalized for committing no crime; a trembling father who was no more than one-half of a relationship that no longer worked.

"I suggest that you work together with regards to your daughter's education, religious aspirations, activities," the judge concluded with an empty smile.

I glanced over at my EX. She grinned.

"The judge went easy," my attorney whispered, "you've been given standard visitation." WENT EASY? I was enraged, and still paying this idiot to defend rights that were never mine.

The EX called the shots now. Due to one simple chromosome, from here on, my love would be valued less. Reality tasted like broken glass. For the first time since my daughter's birth, I silently wept.

Not long after we left court, reality set in…

There was a strange support from those who cared to listen, but it was equally infuriating. "I would have done this… And I would have said that…" most boasted, but these were only the words of people who'd never experienced child custody, or perhaps, from those who valued their pride more than their own offspring. In either case, it didn't matter. Their opinions were empty and valued as such. I felt completely alone.

And so it went: I'd take my daughter for our court-ordered visits, only to drop her off two hours later, so another man could bounce her off his lap. Ironically, each new boyfriend was given all the time he wanted with my daughter. At first, it killed me, but I decided, "Whatever's best for my girl. Her happiness must come first!" Though it stung terribly, that attitude sustained me all the way to Christmas.

I waited in my old driveway for four excruciating hours, while three inches of snow muffled the screams from the cab of my truck. When they finally pulled in, my ex-wife snickered, "I must have lost track of time?" and handed over my daughter. I was livid! My little girl was dead tired and half-asleep. And the EX… well… she just grinned, confident that there was nothing I could do about it. It took everything I had left to conceal my tears. I didn't plan to give her anything for Christmas and was doing my best to stick to the plan.

Days turned into weeks, as I tried to contend with my daughter's misguided guilt of her parents being separated. It wasn't easy. I only had a fraction of her time to soothe her. In the meantime, nothing seemed to ease the spite of a woman who had no qualms about using our child as a pawn in her cruel games. She had custody, so the girl was constantly used as a tool to negotiate for more. While I was fighting for just visitation, she was going for $$$… as much as she could get!

Weeks turned into months and if at all possible, things got even worse. Put simply: Imagine that the person who hates you most controls the person you love most? She would bash my character, using our daughter as her sounding board. I understand the intensity of emotions, even the darkest feelings, but this behavior never made sense to me. For every derogatory word directed at a child's father, isn't half of whom that child is also insulted? On the flip side, there could be no comparable reply without compromising the invaluable lessons of honor. Children don't talk badly about their moms and understand respect! Knowing this, I never reciprocated my wife's vicious slander. She, however, made it a sport to stain the very name our child called her own.

As time dragged on, several mysteries were solved: When a person demonizes another, it evidently frees up their conscience to justify almost anything. (I suppose no one looks in a mirror and sees a demon looking back?) In our case, words like abandonment were forever used to mold me into a monster, often permitting acts of great greed and cruelty. I was at the whimsical mercy of one who was consumed with hateful vengeance. And through it all, she convincingly swore, "I need to protect my daughter. I need to put her first." PROTECT OUR DAUGHTER FROM HER OWN LOVING FATHER?!! Perhaps it's human, but she could never understand that being a father was a whole separate business from being a husband.

The playing field was so damn uneven! Everything I'd ever been taught, everything that made me who I was, raged inside of me to lash out. I wanted to go to war with her, I truly did, but the same recurring question always halted me: Do I pull on my little girl until she breaks in half? The answer, of course, was no. The only thing I really could do was my best, and hope that in time she'd know the depth of my love for her.

This worked for a while, but eventually, I was getting beaten so badly that I had no choice. I put up my gloves. We went back to court.

As I painfully recall, I was allowed (briefly) to explain all that I missed because my ex-wife considered the visitation order a suggestion and not a court mandate. In turn, she lied and vowed that she never interfered with visitation, never slandered my name to our daughter; blah, blah, blah. The judge's shaking head couldn't decide the difference between fact and fiction. In the end, no one in the courtroom could and oddly enough, it didn't seem abnormal for the setting. With a stern reprimand for us both, we were dismissed back to our own agendas. My ex-wife had won again!

At every level, I was at a serious disadvantage. I was struggling financially and begging to be more involved in my daughter's life. As a last resort, I conducted some frantic research and contacted the United Fathers of America. Though their words were encouraging and supportive, their years of gathered statistics proved sobering: Very few women had ever been fined, or jailed, as a result of being held in contempt of court for withholding a child from visitation. In the blurry vision of the court, it was considered a punishment for the child as well. I'd learned: There are many perceptions of the same truth; while in court, the only one that mattered was the judge's. These truths had finally worn discouragement down to disheartenment. I had to ask: If victory is a guaranteed impossibility, why ever enter the ring again? The answer turned my heart to stone.

For all intents and purposes, my daughter's mother had been granted complete and total control, making life pure hell! No matter her games or punishments for me, there was never any true recourse. When confronted, she would simply laugh. "Wanna go back to court?" she'd bark. This woman had been empowered to all ends, a prime example that our "we" society had finally, and completely, surrendered to our "me" society.

The months crawled into years. As I look back, I guess it's the little things that hurt most: There were Christmas when I'd play Santa for a little girl who had been kept up all night by her Mom's family. Each year, she was too exhausted to enjoy the holiday with me, or mine. And every school year, I was forced into begging to see her report card, as she was convinced, "You don't care about her grades. If you did, you would've never abandoned US!" The examples are endless, though I'm not sure they matter anymore.

As if God blessed my daughter's life to only one, her mother, I still struggle to help her retain the half of her identity that came from me; a half also filled with family and tradition. To make matters worse, when any responsibility for my daughter's upbringing was taken from me, it became incredibly dangerous for me to discipline her, or be the father God intended me to be. I remember wishing I had the same rights I watched my ex-in-laws enjoy. The more time that passed, however, the less I kept watch. Even I knew I had been castrated in fatherhood. How could I possibly teach a girl to be an adult when many of these attributes were stripped from me long ago?

In the real world, bitter angry words fall on deaf ears, so silence has watched the months tick off the years. All the while, life has been cheated the many magical moments shared between a father and his daughter. In my darkest nightmares, I could have never imagined watching the childhood of my own blood whip by, while strangers told me (along with those who didn't wish me well) that my input as a father would be limited and my role as a Dad reduced to that of a visiting friend. Yet, it happened! And through it all, the same damn question has haunted me: There was never any question about the value of a mother's love, but at what point did a father's love become valued less? I'm yet to find a reasonable answer.

Though tragic, I now look forward to my daughter becoming a grown woman. I honestly long for the time when our relationship will no longer be controlled by the ever-changing moods of one hateful person. I wish this, even though I know the best years will be fast-forwarded!

As much as I wanted to avoid appearing bitter, it has obviously proven impossible. But you must understand! My dreams, my hopes, my loves… my very future, are found in my daughter. Once she was taken, all was lost, and it's nearly impossible to grieve for someone you still see from time-to-time! In a comically twisted sense, my ex-wife finally found enough ways to share her wonderful gift. It's taken years, but I understand her now. Resentment is a difficult demon to slay.

In closing, as a result of my painful experiences and tormented research, I am saddened to report that we live in a fatherless society today, where many of our children are void of a male influence. In reality, though, abandonment is not the primary cause. Rather, thousands of alleged deadbeat and apathetic Dads stand in the shadows, wishing they could fulfill the most precious responsibility God could ever impart: To raise a child, their child. Instead, they have been forced to atone for the sins of their forefathers.

I suppose the most stiffening truth is that the majority of men are only one decision, one single choice away from being where I am.

The shocking part is that this decision probably won't be theirs to make!

~~~

With a heavy heart, Max read over his essay again and again. It was accurate and honest, and it seemed to capture his truest feelings. Still, there was something missing.

It didn't take long to hit him! Peace would never be found in concentrating on his own feelings. His peace would be discovered when tending to Aubrey's feelings. It was simple: If Aubrey was happy, he was happy.

Starting at another blank screen, Max fought to find some way of letting Aubrey know that although life could sometimes be cruel, no matter what lay ahead, some things would never change. He wanted her to always believe in "happily ever after." Most of all, he needed her to know that she would forever be his little princess. Like a knight atop a white stallion, he decided to speak to her soul:

Aubrey

When you were born, the angels sang;
it echoed in my tears.
To see your face; you stole my heart
and quelled my darkest fears.
We brought you home, the sweetest gift
and laid you in your bed.
I promised, "I'll be with you,"
then kissed you on the head.
Those nights we rocked together,
the world all sound asleep.
I shared my every secret,
you never made a peep.

But time went by, the cruelest times
when Mom and I would fight.
We built a bridge between us
to cross one dreadful night.
In different ways, we both had grown
and changed an awful lot.
It wasn't for the better;
it tore our lives apart.
United, both unhappy;
alone, we stood a chance.
Deciding on the latter,
I grabbed my shirt and pants.

And there you stood in sorrow,
your arms extended wide.
You screamed, "I'm sorry Daddy!"
It haunts me - still inside.
I held you tight within my arms
and rocked your fears to sleep.
Reminded of our secrets,
my soul began to weep.
For you, I wanted so much more,
not parents who just yelled.
I cried, "It's me that's sorry!"
then took the path to hell.

Your Mom and I said bye in court,
that pain I can't describe.
A stranger made decisions
affecting all our lives.
The judge said you belonged with Mom,
it hurt, but I agreed.
For no one can replace Mom's love,
not even a Dad's like me.
I've stood and fought for so much less,
but your life's valued more.
So never would I pull and tug,
the daughter I adore.

They ordered I pay child support,
I laughed, "To clothe and feed?
As long as I am drawing breath,
my girl will never need!"
They couldn't know our secrets -
that you were all I had;
That I'm not just your father,
but me, who you call Dad.
And then I got my sentence:
I'd see you twice a week
and every other holiday,
my eyes began to leak.

And now I write this verse for you
from my heart - which you own.
Reminding you that where I live
will always be your home.
That your life was conceived in love
and no fault should you hold
for folks who couldn't make up,
or life, which can be cold.
So when you blow your candles out
or pray at each day's end,
just know that, "I am with you.
I'm Dad, your bestest friend."

One week later, Max checked his mail and found a crinkled envelope covered in Aubrey's sloppy penmanship. Tearing it open, he sat down and read:

Dad

Roses can be red,
Violets mostly blue,
You and Mommy split up,
But never me and you.

Max wept freely. Aubrey understood his love. His little princess truly understood that he'd never left.