I don't think they ever took anything seriously. "They basically laughed me out of their police department and said I was being petty and vindictive. He told her she can't have boyfriends and he was the only one who was going to love her," Shannon added. When a month went by without anything being done to remove her husband from their home, she walked into the Warren Police Department with screen grabs of text messages Greg had allegedly sent their daughter. Shannon says she reported her concerns to Child Protective Services (CPS) while her daughter was still in the hospital recovering from childbirth.
#MOM DAUGHTER LESBIAN TUMBLR SKIN#
"The blue eyes, the light skin - honestly it was like looking at baby pictures of my own children." "Many people came to me saying how he resembled my husband and resembled my own children," she revealed. After my experience of moving back home part-time at the age of 34, I think the adage should really go a little something more like this: "You can never go home again, unless your mom has all the premium channels on cable and makes really great baked goods.It was only when Shannon first laid eyes on her grandson, whose name DailyMailTV has also decided not to publish, that she was certain Greg was the biological father. People often say, "You can never go home again." Well those people clearly never had their mothers serve them a cup of coffee while they sat, as a grown woman, reading the newspaper on a cold, rainy Saturday morning. When the arrangement ended a few months later and my husband bought his own house, I missed those times at my mother's house dearly. It healed me, at a time when I needed healing, and it helped me breathe again. I'd sleep late in the mornings and eat my mother's snacks and let her take care of me, in a place that reminded me of comfort, warmth, and of the soft surrounding of childhood. I would get into my pajama pants when I arrived and my mother and I would eat take out Chinese food. I'd stop at the drugstore on my way to pick up a six pack of beer, a copy of Cosmopolitan and a family size bag of peanut M & M's. She was a great cook and her house smelled wonderful and did I mention, there were no kids there? What started out as a dismal, depressing prospect - leaving my home on the heels of a divorce to return to my mother's house - ended up feeling like a weekly respite at a really, really nice bed and breakfast for free. I remembered all the wonderful things about being at home again, nearly instantly. Then I would sob every second of the 20 minute drive to my mother's, turning up the sad songs on the radio and screaming out the lyrics to the empty car.Īt first, there was something slightly humiliating about returning to my mother's house, something akin to shame over ending up in the very place I had so casually abandoned a decade and a half before.īut that quickly faded when I realized my mom had HBO.
On Friday nights, I would load my sad belongings into a lumpy duffle bag and kiss my children, whom I had never been separated from before, goodbye. It was a wonderful, miserable proposition. On those weekends where I was displaced from my home, my mother graciously offered to allow me to return to the home of my youth.
My husband moved into his father's house and I stayed with the children during the week, but nearly every weekend he would come and stay with the kids at our house, so that they would have the stability of being in their own home, around the things that made them feel the calmest. Only when it was finally cold and lifeless on the floor, did we decide we needed to have an exit plan. My husband and I had let our marriage die a slow, insidious death. We made love, we made children, and we made a huge, gigantic mess of our lives.įifteen tumultuous years after I bode a fond farewell to the four walls of my childhood bedroom, I found myself back home once again. I married the boyfriend, we moved from small apartment to a feral cat ridden street just outside of Detroit. The story goes like many young love affairs do. "I know what I'm doing!"īut - and I know you'll be surprised by this – it turns out, I did not. "For God's sake, people!" I countered confidently, tossing my New Kids on the Block scrapbook into a half-filled moving box. Play icon The triangle icon that indicates to play
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