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What would you think of a mother who was rejected by her 12 yr. old daughter, to the extent that the child was terrified to even be in the same room?

Most people would wonder about that parent.

I wondered about the child.

I hadn’t thought about Amanda for years.  But back home in Pennsylvania, I was cleaning out a storage shed containing old legal files. A single telephone message fell out of one folder, gently floating to the cement floor like an autumn leaf that lost its grip.

I picked-up the faded pink message from a child psychologist: “Re: 12 yr. old Amanda – if forced to see her mother, she’ll attempt suicide.”

Pow!  The memories washed over me like breaking floodwaters.

I hated custody cases. Hated them. Messy mud-slinging affairs, where one parent can win not on merit but by making the other parent look bad. Would you believe false accusations of child abuse? I heard it all.

Determining a child’s best interests is never easy, but I was intrigued by the woman sitting in my office. She seemed so sweet and kind. Why would a daughter be terrified of this mother? To paraphrase Hamlet, something was rotten in Pennsylvania.

The next day, Jane dropped off four large boxes containing correspondence. depositions and legal pleadings from her old custody case. When Amanda was only two, she was kidnapped by her father. Defying court orders and contempt citations, he refused every attempt by Jane to connect with Amanda, denying even basic visitation.

He was evil incarnate, masterful at manipulating the legal system.

Jane never gave up, despite legal fees that had left her virtually bankrupt.

And now, I was sitting with a woman who had no money and whose credit was shot.

Would it shock you to know lawyers sometimes take cases when the cause matters more than a hefty fee? Harper Lee’s Atticus Finch accepted a sack of hickory nuts in payment for his legal services. A Proverb teaches us, “Better is a little with righteousness than great income with injustice.”

I was blessed with a successful private practice. Jane was a loving mother with an unfailing heart. I admired her fighting spirit. She deserved her day in court.

Jane’s previous lawyer was one of the most respected and high-priced lawyers on the planet – the author of a seminal book about Domestic Relations.  That’s no exaggeration. However, reading the files, I was surprised. The great legal scholar appeared intimidated. His arguments were valid, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it.

A child had been kidnapped. Where was the moral outrage? How could the courts let him get away with it? Amanda, now 12, was caught in the middle.

Arguing a change of circumstances, I was able to get the old case reopened. I found a distinguished child psychiatrist who vehemently disagreed with the psychologist who had left me that frightful pink phone message. She would testify that Amanda’s fear resulted from brainwashing tactics, and only court intervention would correct the emotional damage inflicted on Amanda.

The trial lasted five days. Our testimony and evidence convinced the judge that an emotionally healthy child would not be afraid of a mother she didn’t even know. Jane was an unbelievable witness, lovely, trustworthy and sincere.

Privately in chambers, the judge agreed. But fearful of dire consequences if he altered status quo, he ordered that custody remain with the father. However, in open court, the judge castigated him for his behavior and awarded Jane liberal weekly visitation, an order that finally had some teeth in it if the father didn’t comply.

Amanda’s father was livid. Sitting at the Respondent’s table with his lawyer, The guy seemingly had smoke coming out of his ears. He was openly seething over the Judge’s decision.

Visitation? It seemed like a pyrrhic victory to me. But not to Jane. The judge said she was blameless. A good person and a fit mother. Jane was ecstatic – she had won back her respect. It was a matter of public record – Jane was innocent of all the false accusations.

Jane and I had long talks after the trial.

My advice? I suggested something almost unfathomable  – I suggested Jane simply walk away. Let Amanda go. Despite the court order, The father would continue his manipulative mind games and dirty tricks, causing Amanda to feel conflicted. At this point, it was more important to think about the conflicted emotions from the child’s perspective.

Ongoing litigation would be emotionally draining. I suggested when Amanda was older she might have a deeper understanding of what had happened. At least she would know her mother had done everything she could.

Jane had proved her point. In a way, she had won.

To Jane, I quoted a passage from Ecclesiastes, “To everything there is a season … a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing.”

It was painful, but Jane agreed. She declined the visitation rights we fought so hard to win.

Five years passed.

One day, Jane found a tearful 16 page letter from Amanda under her door. Now 17, Amanda was no longer with her father. She wanted to be reunited with her mother. 

Amanda was sorry.  Could her mother forgive her? 

Was it too late to start over? Did her mother still love her?

            To everything there is a season … a time to break down and a time to build up. A time for a mother and daughter to gather stones together.

            A time to embrace.

Epilogue:  The faded pink phone message is a treasured keepsake. Last Michael heard, Amanda was living with her mother and making great progress.

Once upon a time, men were strong and women were weak. Boys were athletic; girls were dainty, meek and mild. Interestingly, despite extensive research, no one can say when those concepts of strength and weakness no longer stood up to empirical evidence.

New research supports an alternate theory:  men were never the stronger sex. NEVER!

Women were, are, and always have been stronger than men.

Hmmmm … whoda’thunkit? 

Well, me, for one.

Long ago, I came to the realization that no matter how fast I run, no matter how many push-ups I can do, my overall strength at crunch time pales in comparison with just about every woman I’ve ever met. I know when I’m beat.

Any man unwilling to admit that women are the stronger sex? It’s only further evidence of man’s inherent weakness.

            Don’t believe me? Look no further than the subject of illness. When a woman gets sick, you know what she does? Everything! She just “sucks it up” and does whatever needs to be done.

Women make coffee, clothe and feed the kids, fix lunches, plan dinner, walk the dog, balance the household budget, dress to the nines, and then go to the office and act as if nothing is wrong.

And women never complain because … well, exactly whom would they complain to?  Men?

Conversely, with the very first sneeze or sniffle, men are reduced to their basic default level – big babies. I speak with authority on this subject because I have met the enemy, and he is me.

At the first sign of a tummy ache, men curl up on the sofa and WANT TO DIE. “Work? In MY condition? Are you SERIOUS?” Just lying on the sofa is about all we’re capable of doing. And so what if we watch Judge Judy reruns while lying there – it’s not like we’re really enjoying it.

Yesterday morning I was exhausted, despite a full night’s rest. Why? Because the day before, I had performed some unusual and extraordinary feats which depleted all my energy levels. I can’t remember everything, but I recall picking up all the clothes in my bedroom … I did half a load of laundry … and after lunch, I washed a few dishes.

I get tired just thinking about it.

Now, I may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but I know I’m susceptible to any kind of bug when I’m tired. By evening, I could feel a cold coming on. I had a cough and a slight headache.

WAAAAAHH!!!!

Fortunately, my cries did not go unheeded. My sister Faith gave me a little capsule called “Airborne” and said, “Take it.” I asked no questions; I swigged it down with water. My mother gave me a lozenge containing zinc. Once again, I asked no questions; I took it.

Then a friend gave me a package filled with orange fizzy stuff and enough Vitamin C to launch a small rocket. I took it; and, although I’m somewhat bigger than a small rocket, I too was duly launched, barely missing a ceiling fan.

Every  once in a while, I do what I’m told.

I hate being predictable.

Meanwhile, feeling sorry for myself, I was watching TV the other night when the office manager from my old Philadelphia law office called to say hello.

Being honest, I told her I was near death.  

A dear friend, Donna suggested I put some salt in warm water and gargle the solution. Once again, I did what I was told. I promptly went to the kitchen and … Wow! That was great! I felt better right away.

Next day , I called Donna to thank her for the suggestion, because the saltwater actually tasted pretty good. I felt better immediately.

Donna said, “Wait a minute – did you gargle it?”

I replied, “Gargle it? I thought you said to drink it.”

This morning, I related that story to my mother, and she called me a “Silly nut.” 

Well, mmmmaybe. But I think I’m onto something. If a schoolteacher from Padook can put a few herbs in a capsule and make millions selling Airborne, why can’t an old piano player sell bottled saltwater?

Can anyone prove it doesn’t work? Who knows – maybe it’ll cure what ails yah. Coming soon to a store near you – “Mikey’s Curative Saltwater.” Don’t knock it. It worked for me.

Now, I know what you are thinking. You are agreeing with mother. And you are beginning to think that women are not only stronger, they’re also smarter. Right?

Sorry … gotta run … Judge Judy is coming on.

-30-

Originally published in The Salina (KS) Journal, 2013