The courtroom battle had been brutal. My ex-husband, Greg, sat there with his lawyer, looking the picture of the aggrieved father. He spoke passionately about his rights, about the importance of a father’s presence, and about fairness.
“Your Honor,” his lawyer argued, “my client demands 50/50 custody. He wants to be an equal parent.”
I sat there, trembling. I was terrified. Not because I wanted to keep him from them, but because I knew the truth. Greg didn’t know their pediatrician’s name. He didn’t know their shoe sizes. He had never put them to bed in his life.
But the judge bought the act. He granted the split.
I walked out of the courthouse feeling sick. I knew why Greg was doing this. It wasn’t love. My husband fought for 50/50 custody to avoid paying child support. He had done the math: if he had them half the time, his monthly payments to me would drop to almost zero. He viewed our children as line items on a spreadsheet to be minimized.
The first weekend arrived. I packed their bags with military precision, labeling everything, trying to set him up for success. I kissed them goodbye, forcing a smile I didn’t feel.
“Have fun with Dad!” I chirped.
I expected a quiet weekend. I expected silence.
I got chaos.
An hour after drop-off, my phone rang.
“Sarah?” Greg’s voice was frantic. “They’re hungry.”
“Okay… so feed them,” I said, confused.
“He called me 15 times that weekend,” I recalled, shaking my head at the absurdity of it.
The questions were baffling for a grown man.
“How to cook pasta?” he asked at 6:00 PM. “Do I put the noodles in before the water boils?”
“Where their pajamas were?” he demanded at 8:00 PM, despite them being in the bag I had handed him.
“How to get them to sleep?” he whispered desperately at 10:00 PM, while I could hear them jumping on the bed in the background.
By Sunday evening, I was waiting on the porch. The car pulled up. Greg didn’t even get out to say goodbye to them properly. He practically shoved them out the door. He looked haggard, like he had survived a war zone.
He walked up the driveway, handing me the bag.
“‘You can have full custody,’” he said, waving a white flag of surrender. “‘This is too hard.’“.
I looked at him. The passion from the courtroom was gone. The desire to be an “equal parent” had evaporated the moment he realized parenting involved actual work.
“What about the child support?” I asked.
“I’ll pay it,” he muttered. “Just… take them.”
I hugged my kids, who were sticky and tired but happy to be home. As Greg drove away, speeding off toward his quiet, child-free life, the truth was undeniable. He didn’t want the kids; he just wanted to save money. And unfortunately for him, he learned that being a father costs a lot more than just a check—it costs effort, and that was a price he was too bankrupt to pay.
