My son’s father was still in federal holding when our
relationship began to end. It was
stressful and scary because I had already distanced myself from my own family
and choosing to leave him meant also losing any kind of support or connection
to his family, which was all I had at that time. The thought of having no one was scary but I
had probably already become included in those “if I don’t fuck with them, you
don’t either” conversations I had overheard him having before about the other
children and their mothers when they pissed him off.
Not supporting my son’s father while he was going through
his indictment was a form of betrayal in his eyes and his mother quickly became
hostile with me as well. Especially when
rumors that I was dating again began spreading.
Small disrespectful comments would be made during conversations and then
things just turned outright ugly. “I
heard you talking to what’s-his-name. Is
he helping you pay the bills? I know you ain’t over there getting a wet ass for
nothin’!” She later accused me of
allowing another man to wear her son’s clothes.
Saying she heard that I had given them away. No man I dated would ever take another man’s
belongings nor would I give them away.
His clothes were still hanging in the closet and folded away in drawers.
But she became upset anyway, yelling and
cursing at me that she would be over to pick up her son’s clothes. I advised her that she should calm down first
because she wouldn’t be allowed to enter my home so upset and then offered that
I bring the clothes to her house myself when I was able but she came anyway.
My son’s older sister, who had to be around 11 years old at
the time, came to my door. Her
grandmother was waiting downstairs and sent the child up for her father’s clothes. I could tell by her body language that she
was uncomfortable and I apologized to her for being put in the middle of such an
unfortunate situation. I asked her to
tell her grandmother that I would bring the clothes to her home myself when I
had time. Shortly after she left, my
friend who lived in the building across from me called asking if I was
okay. She said she could see several of
the county’s sheriff trucks in my parking lot.
I looked outside my patio door and saw the lights flashing against the
trees, then heard a knock at the door.
“Ma’am, this lady is saying that you stole her son’s clothes, kicked her
granddaughter in the leg and slammed the door in her face when she came to
retrieve them,” the officer told me, waiting for an explanation. I apologized to the officer for the misuse of
her time and explained to her what had actually happened and that my son’s
father had lived there, therefore the clothes were not stolen. She asked to enter my apartment to see the
clothes and I led her to the bedroom closet.
The officer, clearly annoyed at that point, said she would ask my son’s
grandmother to leave and allow me to pack the clothes and deliver them
myself.
A few days later, I dropped the clothes off, folded neatly
in large plastic bags, carrying them from the car to my son’s grandmother’s doorstep
as she and her husband pulled them inside the house. My son’s father called me afterward, cursing
at me for “throwing my shit at my Mama door, you little disrespectful
bitch!” Apparently a lie his mother had
told, but one of many more to come.
She had also been calling my parole officer, leaving
messages that I needed to be put back in prison for selling drugs and
associating with other drug dealers. I couldn’t believe my own child’s
grandmother would even think to behave in such a way, let alone present lies to
have her grandchild’s only parent able to provide taken away. “Leave those people alone, Ms. Evans. You have so much potential,” my parole officer
told me. “This is why character is so
important,” he said. “People are gonna
take advantage of your situation and create lies, tell stories to shame you, but
consistence and integrity build other people’s confidence in who are you and
what you stand for and they will believe in you regardless.” My parole officer didn’t violate me or talk
to me about police contact or any of the accusations my son’s grandmother and
the other women left on his voicemail.
He didn’t question anything I told him. “You’re making a wise decision
disassociating yourself from these people,” he said. Realizing how hateful they had become, and so
easily, made me agree with him.
Through all of the disrespect I received from my son’s
grandmother (being called a bitch, her trying to get me sent back to prison and
threatening to have people hurt me), I never, not once disrespected that
woman. My mother taught me better than
that…
