Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) Read Free Page A

dark secrets of what his father did behind closed doors, until my son could bear no more the fear and broke his silence – turning to Mummy to make it stop.  Mummy who could comfort, love and keep him safe – Mummy who made pain go away – and Mummy who could not make it stop.
                    And so the punching began.  The punching of my son and Mummy – the punching by the system behind the cloth of gold and as we punched from the other side – the side of righteousness, love and truth, we made not a single dent.
     

Chapter 2
     
                  We tried to appear relaxed and nonchalant as our innards twisted in somersaults, sitting in the passenger lounge of the ferry that would take us not to total safety, but at least to a safer harbour.  The most dangerous part of our journey was almost over – the breaching of the Prohibited Steps Order that had been issued only the day before -The final straw in the many whip lashes that had broken our backs and given us this terrifying scenario as our only option if we were to stay together.  My son was brave as a lion when I told him that we must go.  He had been asking to leave for some time when the forced contact with his abuser did not stop.  When the system refused to acknowledge his tears, listen to his desperate pleas and gave him less rights than an animal. 
                  “Why has God given me a rubbish life?” He often asked.  I could not answer that for our prayers had not been answered when we turned helpless to our Maker.  I had never been religious, but even I had begun to pray and seemingly we were not heard – but I suppose any devout Christian would allude to God having given man choice and we were the victims of his father’s choice to control, bully and abuse.  I merely told him that God must have a plan for us and that a better life must lie ahead.  As I took him away from his home, friends and those he loved, I hoped with all my heart that I could fulfil the promise of God’s plan.
                  But perhaps He was listening – for we reached the other side without the feared tap on the shoulder in the passenger lounge from any lurking police officer waiting to climb the ladder.  We survived the agonizing three hour journey in broad daylight without disturbance from the outside – despite the inner turmoil I was convinced was etched for all to see on my face.  We behaved as if we were off for a holiday jaunt for the weekend – a shopping trip on the mainland – perhaps to watch a football match of my son’s favourite team .
                  Every minute seemed endless as we saw the Island diminish further into the distance.  Every breath from my body and beat of my heart seemed to echo resoundingly in my ears and whilst innocent of anything other than love – I felt guilty – guilty for taking him to safety – guilty for refusing to hand him over to Social Services to brainwash him into accepting the abuse – accepting the loss of his mother – accepting the loss of his adored grandfather and being given to strangers to prepare for the transition of being placed in the full time custody of his father.  The man he feared most on earth.
                  I had collapsed in the Courtroom from shock when my advocate had read out the evil plan they had in mind for my son – the supposed Care Order – Care for who?  Care only to crush, destroy, devastate – to fulfil the increasing demands of a man who had no soul, who watched his son’s suffering at a tender age with brutal satisfaction, smugness and a smile like a cruel slash of a knife across his face.  He had the whole Court in the palm of his hand.  Fathers for Justice had swung the pendulum so far away from the biological and natural role of motherhood that men were now, it seemed, more suitable to raise children than women regardless of their fitness, ability or relationship with the child.