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After letting out a harsh breath, I made an illegal left turn out of the courthouse garage and shot onto the highway towards my daughters’ school.
“Dial Bee,” I said aloud.
“Dialing Bee,” my truck’s automated system responded.
“Hey, this is the Queen Bee. Leave me a message.”
Beep.
“Bee! Where the hell are you! The girls got out of school over forty-five minutes ago. I told you I would be in court all day and you knew this was your day to pick them up! This is some bullshit! Why are we going through this again! Fucking call me back!” I disconnected the call.
“FUUUCCCKKK!” I yelled while hitting the steering wheel.
This was the second time in a month that Beatrice, my daughters’ mother, had forgotten to pick them up from school. I had been in court all day, so my phone was on do not disturb. I didn’t receive any of the messages from the school until thirty minutes after they’d been sent.
“I can’t believe this crap!” I yelled while maneuvering in and out of the rush hour traffic.
Before I moved the girls from public school to private school, they went through several months of their mother not picking them up or picking them up late, getting them to school late, or allowing them to miss school altogether. I had no idea the girls were having problems in school until one of their teachers called me and told me what was going on. She’d only reached out to me because she’d tried to contact Bee, and Bee never returned her phone calls. She informed me that the girls hadn’t been performing well in their classes. They had attended school more than once in the wrong uniform; and they had a lunch balance that they owed to the school because they were not bringing money for lunch, and the school was running a tab.
I spoke to Beatrice and thought we’d settled everything. She told me that she would make sure the girls were taken care of, but right after our talk, I received another call from their teacher informing me that nothing had changed. I stepped in and asked their mother for full custody. Her actions had shown that she didn’t want to be a full- time mother anymore. Instead of agreeing to give me custody, Bee decided she wanted to fight me. She found a lawyer and petitioned for full custody.
In Beatrice’s custody petition, she claimed that I had never paid child support. Anyone who knew me knew that I always paid for my kids. We didn’t have a legal child support agreement, but I gave Bee a healthy amount of money every time I got paid. The funds were direct deposited into an account that she had full access to. She attempted to make me look bad by talking about an old altercation that I had with a guy during my freshman year of undergrad. He and I got into a fistfight, and he was sent to the hospital. She claimed this incident showed that I was prone to violence even though she failed to mention that the guy went to the hospital because he started having an asthma attack. It wasn’t like I’d beat him to a pulp; I’d noticed he was having difficulty breathing and didn’t touch him after that.
I didn’t attack her back even though I had solid proof of things she’d done. I had documented evidence from the school that the girls were not performing well. I had confirmation from the girls’ pediatrician that she’d missed several appointments for the girls’ checkups and vaccinations. I didn’t feel it was right to malign Beatrice’s character even though she had no problem attacking me. A good friend of mine told me that the depth of love was measured by the depth of defense. How far was I willing to go to save my daughters? After having that conversation, I knew I had to fight Bee the same way she’d fought me. A family lawyer that I’d met through my boss’ then girlfriend, Averie, recommended that we go to mediation before I declared war against Bee.
Beatrice and I tried the mediation and it worked. I was able to get the girls with me part-time. Slowly, the girls’ time with me increased, and I had them through the week, while Bee got them on the weekends. She claimed that since I lived so close to their school, it was easier for me to get them there in the mornings. Then she started missing their pick-up times and canceling their weekend stays with her. Her actions baffled me, but I didn’t have time to put too much thought into it because I had two little girls who were depending on me to care for them.
The last time the girls were picked up late from their new school, the principal told me that it would be the school’s responsibility to contact the department of children and family services if this became a trend. I tried explaining our family situation. Bee and I weren’t dating or living together. We were simply co-parents, trying to raise our daughters together. The principal said she understood but couldn’t sidestep the rules to fit our situation. I hoped I wouldn’t be met at the school with someone trying to take my kids from me. If so, I would definitely be going to jail tonight.
I pulled into the parking lot of the school, jogged up the steps and through the front door. My heart broke when I turned the corner and I found my two daughters sitting on a bench outside the principal’s office.
“Hey munchkins,” I said as I opened my arms to hug each girl.
“Hi, Daddy,” they both said after we hugged.
“Daddy is sorry. I was in court all day. You know I would have been here earlier if I would’ve known,” I explained.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” Fee, my youngest daughter, responded.
“Mr. Owens,” Principal Pearson called.
“Give Daddy just a second. I need to speak with Principal Pearson,” I said to the girls.
I followed Principal Pearson into her office and closed the door. I’d stood in the same spot not even a month ago and promised this would never happen again.
“Mr. Owens,” Principal Pearson started after removing her leopard print eyeglasses.
Principal Pearson was a pillar in the educational community, particularly in the Black community. Her mother was one of the first Black women to teach in the public schools and she’d followed in her mother’s footsteps. She’d been encouraged to move into political positions but refused. She felt she could better serve the children in the schools. She and her husband opened this school with three children, theirs. Now there was a two to three-year waiting list for children to get into the school. I was fortunate to work for one of the most powerful law firms in the country, so my boss put in a good word for the girls and me. We were moved to the top of the list.
“Bringing in Phoenix and Skylar was a great decision on my part. They are both excellent students, exceptional citizens, and extremely polite. But we seem to have a pattern forming. As I told you the last time, this type of behavior is not acceptable. We pride ourselves in selecting families who can follow the rules and take care of their children. The only reason I didn’t call DCFS is that you explained the situation the last time. I am very familiar with Mr. Valentine and Mr. Belle, both of whom wrote beautiful letters of recommendation for your family. I know that they both believe in you, so I am trying to do the same thing. If your parenting partner cannot hold up her end of the deal, then you should probably investigate some type of after school care for the girls. We can’t have this happen again.”
Standing in front of her desk was reminiscent of the times I’d been called to the principal’s office. My heart pounded in my chest like she was about to give me a three-day suspension or after school detention.
“Thank you and I appreciate your patience, Principal Pearson. I can wholeheartedly guarantee that this won’t happen again. I will have them in an after-school program by the beginning of next week. I will be here to get them for the rest of the week. As I explained before, their mother and I were working well together, but I see that I can’t depend on her.”
“I’m here to help, Mr. Owens. I can recommend some after school programs that the girls would like,” she said.
“No, thank you. I have one in mind.”
