2006 to present, Franklin, Tennessee

By Marti King

We were five months away from our wedding when I met my now-husband’s three sons, Tobey, Skylar, and Brandon. The October breeze whirled leaves around them like a cyclone as they stepped out of the car. I welcomed them in our home, telling each one of them how many stories their dad had told me about them.

Like bouncing puppies, my three children greeted them excitedly and quickly gave them a tour of the house. Bonding was immediate due to the closeness of the ages. My oldest son, David, was 11. Tobey was 10. Skylar was 9. Brandon and my daughter, Morgan, were 8. Noah, my youngest, was 5. Thicker than thieves, they ran through the house playing everything from spies to superheroes. Hunter, my husband, was thrilled. His boys had “taken to me,” and my kids “had taken” to them. Nothing made him happier.

That weekend I got to know his boys. Bright-eyed and sweet to the core, they told me stories of heartache and pain. They lived in a shed. They slept in tents. And there were forbidden secrets they said they could never share. I never pushed them. I would fold my arms around them in a big hug and tell them if they ever needed us, we would always be there. They would nod their heads and walk away. Sometimes their shoulders looked heavy, like a burden too big to carry had been heaved upon them. I wondered if it was me.

On Christmas Eve, I found out it wasn’t.

As we were frantically preparing to visit his mother for the holidays, Hunter got a phone call that would alter everyone’s lives.

The boys’ mother, Heather, had been taken into custody for making meth in the home. We were to take the boys that evening, and retain full custody. The state was preparing to sever all child custody ties with their mother. As he told me about the phone conversation, I could see in my husband’s eyes a variety of emotions: anger, sadness, relief.

We had wondered if there was drug use. Hunter had even cried over the helplessness of not being able to offer them a better life. We found out later that relatives around the boys knew that their mother was into drugs, but failed to do anything about it.

I sat on the bed as Hunter quickly made preparations to welcome his boys into our home on a full-time status. I closed my eyes and fought back tears. Those poor boys, I thought. Those poor little boys.

Together, we called my children into our room and told them that Tobey, Skylar, and Brandon would be coming home to stay. Instead of focusing on anything negative, I instructed the children to thank God for “the best Christmas present ever.” They were upbeat and excited to “always have someone to play with.” They hurriedly ran off to make room for their new full-time brothers.

Grey, dismal rain fell as we arrived to pick up the boys. They quietly filed into our car. Their hugs were empty, defeated. My three welcomed them into the van with jubilation. Seeing that Skylar’s eyes were swollen from crying, Morgan quickly began to tell silly stories to lighten the mood. Tobey soon joined in. Brandon remained silent and detached.

All of the children had a “wonderful” Christmas. We made sure that every child got an equal amount of presents. Brandon finally stated that he wished his mother could have shared Christmas with us. The room went silent.

“I bet she would have liked that,” I told him and gave him a big hug.

On New Year’s Eve the inevitable question came. We were all sitting down to dinner when Brandon, perhaps the most fragile of Hunter’s crew, asked aloud, “So, what do we call you?”

All eyes turned to me, even Hunter’s. I searched my heart quickly and laid down my fork. Knowing this situation was delicate for everyone, I prayed for the right words to say.

“I don’t care what any of you call me, as long as you know I love you,” I replied.

The children’s faces lit up with smiles. Hunter’s face beamed. I suppose it was a good answer because after a few days, Skylar began referring to me as “Momma.” Tobey tested the waters with “Momma” and “Marti” intermittently for a few days. When all was said and done, though, he chose “Momma.” Brandon held out for a few more days.

“Would it hurt your feelings if I didn’t call you Momma?” he asked while I was pulling a meatloaf out of the oven. I sat the food down and turned to him. His brow was furrowed and his cheeks were puffy like he was holding back buckets of tears.

“Why, no Sweetie, not at all.” I smiled.

“Because I just feel like I would be … would be …” tears filled his little eyes.

“You would be forgetting your mom?” I asked, stroking his red hair.

He nodded and burst into tears. His little arms reached around me and clutched me tight. I scooped him up and sat down in a chair. I rocked him while his sobbed. I can’t begin to describe the feelings that flooded through me at that moment. I can tell you that most of the emotions were anger. Not at this broken little boy in my arms, but at his mother. Who could put their child though this? All he wanted were answers and a normal life.

Wanting to unleash my personal thoughts on the entire situation, I held my tongue. Brandon loved his mother dearly and I wouldn’t become an enemy by making a rash statement about her or her choices. I comforted him and told him that I was not there to replace their mother, rather, I was an added addition to the family for him.

“I’m a bonus!” I said. “So don’t you feel like you could ever hurt my feelings. I want you to call me what you want to call me. As for your mom, why don’t you write her a letter and I’ll send it out for you?”

Through sniffles, Brandon nodded. I guess that was a break through, because that night he began to call me “Momma,” too.

A tempest hit the house soon after that with a phone call from their mother calling from her rehab facility. Hunter put the phone conversation on speaker phone to monitor what his ex-wife was telling the boys. The conversation was pleasant. Barely able to speak between sobs, Skylar was the most emotional. Then Brandon, in an innocent response to a simple question, referred to me as “Momma.” Dead silence on the line.

“I’m the only Momma you have,” she stated.

“No, I have two. And I love you both,” Brandon responded.

After the boys had left the room, the verbal tirade began. Were we forcing them to call me “Momma”? Why were we hell bent on pushing her out of their lives? This was Hunter’s fault. We were turning her children against her.

It was not a pretty conversation. My husband unloaded years of frustration about her parenting techniques and judgment skills. The conversation ended abruptly when Hunter threw in a few choice words.

After the conversation (or yelling match, whichever you prefer) was over, I felt terrible. Hunter was completely justified in stating that her choices put her in this situation. He was completely justified in stating that she had no right to say who they should call “Momma,” since she had made the boys call every boyfriend she shacked up with “Daddy.” Still, something was nagging on the inside of me. And I just couldn’t shake it. That is, until three days later at work.

I kept replaying the conversation in my mind. What was nagging me? Her view of me as a threat? That wasn’t bothering me. That was more or less expected. What was it? I searched my mind. And then it hit me. And I sat down at my computer and wrote their mother a letter.

Dear Heather,

I understand that there have been some rather heated conversations between you and Hunter. Because of these unfortunate circumstances, I am writing you this letter.

First of all, no one is forcing Tobey, Skylar, and Brandon to call me “Momma.” They asked me what I wanted to be called. Knowing the delicate nature of this situation, I merely told them that they could call me whatever they wanted, as long as they knew I loved them. They began calling me “Momma” because they wanted to. I didn’t feel it would be right to stop them since I had given them the choice. At no time were they instructed or forced to call me that.

I also have been encouraging them to write you letters. In fact, I am the one who has been mailing them to you. Please don’t ever think that we would try and force you from their lives. You are their mother, and they love you. For Hunter and I to try and “erase” you would make us enemies to them. And it would be unfair to force them to choose sides. So, as far as I am concerned, we are all on the same side … period.

I have found old pictures of you that I have given to the boys. They have part of a wall devoted to pictures of you; you are by no means being forced from their lives. I can only begin to fathom what it must feel like for you to be going through all of this. As a mommy, my heart would be broken. I know yours must be, too. My worst fear would be for my children to be taken away to be raised by someone I don’t know. That I would be forgotten. And that an anger would harbor in their hearts against me.

I know you don’t know me, Heather. But these boys are being raised to love you and to understand that we all make mistakes. Some are just more costly than others. You have a chance to make things right with them. Get clean and stay clean. It will be a long haul, you know, getting trust from people. Take it day by day. Focus on recovering. Your kids are fine. Anytime you want to talk to them, call. When you get out, we will fix up visitations. The point of this letter is, from one mommy to another, to let you know that you will not be forgotten. And, you will be loved.

Sincerely,

Marti King

With a sigh of relief and a sense of release, I dropped the letter into the mail slot. Getting ready for bed that night I told Hunter about the letter.

“I don’t really care about her feelings,” he stated flatly. “I could care less. Look what she did to the boys!”

“I know, I know,” I replied softly. “But the tone of her voice on that phone wasn’t anger, it was desperation. It finally hit home that she had messed up. And as a mother, she deserves the respect to know that all is well with the boys. This letter will make things better for everyone’s future.”

A week later another phone call came to our home. Hunter answered. With an inquisitive look he announced it was Heather … and she wanted to speak to me.

Through muffled sobs she whispered, “I just wanted to thank you so much for your letter. You will never know how much it means to me. I have it in my Bible and it’s given me strength to try hard … so hard I make it out and be OK. I read it every night. I even took it to group with me. Everyone in there has these terrible stories. And I read your letter out loud. People in there were crying, Marti, over your letter. Their families won’t let them see their children. And here you are, thinking of the boys and ME! To calm me down! I have cried every night over losing them. I have been so stressed out I can’t think straight … worrying and all. I will always have to pay for the fact I made a mistake. My payment is my boys. I’ll never have them living with me again. But at least I know they are in good hands. Not with someone who is poisoning them against me. Thank you. Thank you so much for setting my mind at rest.”

Smiling, I handed the phone to the boys. As Hunter put the call on the speaker, Heather asked about the boys’ day and referred to me as “Momma Marti.” She told each one of them that it was OK to call me “Momma” because she knew how much I loved them. I watched their faces brighten as the feelings of their “betrayal” of her were cast off their shoulders.

What would have become of our family if I had not written that letter? I’ll never know. But I’m so glad that I heeded that inside nagging, that urging. It was love that wrote the letter. Love of some fantastic little boys. And in doing so, Tobey, Skylar, and Brandon were no longer Hunter’s boys to me.

They were my sons.

Marti King resides with her soulmate husband and six wonderful children in Tennessee. In addition to being a freelance wirter, she is also a talented vocalist. Her faith and her family are her strength. She is using a pseudonym, and all names have been changed.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, April 27th, 2007 | Email This Post

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