At 14, My Dad Slapped Me Twice And Tossed Me Out Into A Snowstorm… – Reddit Family Tales

His new position paid less, partially because news had spread about his unexpected availability. Nobody appeared to want to hire the dad who almost murdered his child.

He wrote letters that I didn’t read and voicemails that I didn’t listen to. Mom preserved everything methodically, documenting his attempts to communicate for legal grounds.

The divorce process exposed truths about my parents’ marriage that I had never known. Mom had been unhappy for years, but she stayed for practical reasons: stability for our children, financial stability, and the normal considerations when considering whether to split up a family.

Dad’s violence had provided her all the rationale she needed, unequivocal proof that remaining was more perilous than leaving. Dad’s counsel attempted to portray him as a worried father who overreacted in a state of stress.

The tactic failed when Mom’s counsel submitted images, medical records, and meteorological data from that night, demonstrating how dangerous the conditions had been. The judge’s grave, uncompromising demeanor as she evaluated the evidence said volumes.

No amount of legal trickery could justify putting a youngster into a blizzard. The custody hearing was really unpleasant.

Dad’s lawyer called me to the stand and attempted to convince me to declare I wanted a connection with my father, that I missed him, and that I knew he made a mistake. He tried to apologize numerous times to him.

I spoke straight to Dad, studying his expression as I recalled the trip through the storm in graphic, frightening detail. The numbness creeping through my limbs, the great confusion, and the true bone-deep worry that I might die.

After 20 minutes, his lawyer stopped asking me. Hannah also testified despite the fact that her own counsel told her not to.

She attempted to justify her deception as an impulsive deed of a teenager which she quickly regretted. However, the prosecution obtained footage from our doorbell camera.

I had no idea this footage existed. It showed Hannah watching me stop on the porch with a faint, unsettling grin before turning away.

The film was devastating, difficult to dismiss as typical adolescent folly. She had taken pleasure in my agony.

Mom’s testimony was clinical and sad. She proceeded over the timeline, pointing out flaws in Hannah’s statement that Dad should have seen had he bothered to ask questions.

She offered proof of Hannah’s habit of manipulation, including minor falsehoods throughout the years and situations in which my sister had twisted the facts to get her way. This had not been a unique instance; there had been an escalation.

The judge granted Mom full custody with wording that made Dad’s prospects of obtaining visits nearly difficult. The decision cited his catastrophic failure of judgment, willingness to use violence without evidence, and reckless endangerment of a minor child.

“You nearly murdered your kid and this court will not give you another chance to do so.”

During the divorce proceedings, financial discovery showed that Dad had been concealing money. Not in large quantities, but enough to present a clear image of dishonesty.

He had a separate bank account and made some investments that he never acknowledged. Mom’s lawyer seized on these revelations, painting a picture of a guy who had been duplicitous even before the Hannah incident.

The judge altered the settlement appropriately, awarding Mom 65% of the marital assets rather than the standard 50/50 share. Dad’s folks attempted to intercede.

They contacted Mom, recommended family therapy, and argued that breaking up the family was too drastic. Mom visited with them once, brought images and medical reports, and explained exactly what their son had done to me.

They exited that meeting in startled silence, their arguments abandoned in the face of overwhelming facts. They didn’t contact us again.

The Long Road to Healing and Final Closure

We relocated and marched to a smaller home on the opposite side of town with three bedrooms instead of four and a basic kitchen. But it was ours—mine and Mom’s place, free of treachery or violence.

Mom let me choose paint colors for my room, helped me organize furnishings, and ensured I had all I needed. She was kinder with me than she had been previously, more cautious, as if I were something valuable that had almost been lost.

Hannah moved in with Dad in June just after school concluded. The situation was just as Mom had promised: finished the school year in familiar surroundings, then moved to Dad’s little flat.

My sister’s complaints had diminished by then, replaced by a morose resignation. She understood Mom meant every word and no amount of tears or trickery could modify the phrase.

The apartment complex where Dad and Hannah wound up was in a rougher section of town with police sirens blaring every night and a parking lot full of cars with expired registrations. Dad’s lower income resulted in less favorable circumstances.

Hannah disliked it. She grew up in a comfortable home in a decent area with friends who had pools and finished basements.

Now she shared a two-bedroom apartment with thin walls and neighbors who argued so loudly that every word could be heard. Her new school was also harsher, full of children who didn’t care about her prior social standing.

She was no one there, just another new chick with an attitude issue. I learned about their problems through the grapevine: mutual friends, individuals who know both families.

Dad was drinking more, arriving at work late, and barely holding his life together. Hannah was failing classes, getting into fights, and plummeting in ways that indicated she’d finally recognized how much she’d damaged.

Hearing about their deterioration made me feel a sense of dismal satisfaction. A greater chunk simply felt empty.

School had changed for me too, albeit in different ways. Teachers who knew me previously regarded me with caution, as if I may shatter if they pushed too hard.

Guidance counselors continued arranging check-ins, asking how I was adapting and if I needed someone to talk to. The attention was oppressive, even though I knew it was motivated by concern.

My grades improved when everything went apart. With the pandemonium at home gone, I could concentrate on my studies without waiting for the next explosion.

Mom hired a place that was peaceful and neat, allowing me to focus. Math made sense in ways it didn’t before.

When I wasn’t on edge, I could write English essays with ease. Sophie remained my best buddy throughout everything.

Her parents testified at the custody court. Their story of my arrival that night had substantial weight with the court.

Mr. Collins stated my problem in harsh medical terms: early stages of hypothermia, frostbite on exposed limbs, and obvious evidence of shock or trauma. His evidence made Dad’s lawyer obviously uneasy.

The Collins family never treated me differently, nor did they make me feel like a charity case or a victim. Sophie’s house became a second home, a place where regular life could continue.

Movie evenings, school sessions, and meals were the most dramatic moments when someone forgot to set the table. Normally provided healing in ways that treatment did not.

Mom returned to work with fresh zeal, working extra shifts, volunteering, and enrolling in training programs she had previously turned down. I realized she was processing everything via action, burning off her fury and terror by remaining continually active.