I don’t remember the court date. I don’t remember the notices in the mail, the missed phone calls, the messages from lawyers or much about the week before. What I do remember is the sheriff standing in the doorway and my sweet son watching from the bottom step of the staircase behind me.

I Was Deemed Unfit to Be a Mother

The real wound isn’t what happened that day. It’s everything I cannot remember.

Who forgets the day they lost custody of their child? What kind of mother forgets that? A drunk one.

My son was 6 when I missed the hearing that, in my absence, ended with custody being awarded to his father. That morning, I hadn’t even known I was supposed to be in court. I was too far gone in the drinking by then — in denial, in crisis, in deep — to register the significance of what I had missed.

We were at our home in Kamloops, British Columbia, when the sheriff arrived — me, hungover and foggy; my son, still in pajamas at 2 p.m., watching a movie. The man stood in the doorway holding official documents that confirmed what I hadn’t yet understood: I had already lost him.

I didn’t argue. What was there to say?

The sheriff handed me the order. I was no longer legally allowed to keep my son. And just like that, he was leaving. I knew I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t try. I stood frozen, too late, too ashamed, too undone, while my son looked back at me — confused, scared, silent.

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