Over time, I realized that maybe I couldn’t change anyone else or how they felt about me, but I could change me

As told to Sandy Eller

H

ave you ever had that moment where you read something that triggers such a strong response that you just have to say something?

That was me six and a half years ago, when Mishpacha ran an article titled “Rejected by My Children” (Issue 749). Most people who read Rachel Ginsberg’s excellent piece on the topic of parental alienation got quite an education on an issue that they knew little or nothing about, but not me. I had already spent two years living that horrific nightmare, and I knew all about the agony of having your spouse turn your kids against you. And while the article was incredibly validating, it made me angry, too, because I knew from my own experience that some of the expert advice presented was just plain wrong.

Saying nothing and letting those ideas go unchallenged just wasn’t an option for me. I constructed my rebuttal, which ran in the pages of this magazine one week later, trying to present things as logically and concisely as I could. I explained that parental alienation is essentially a cult, and casting it as anything other than abuse is just wrong. I shared the hurt I felt when people told me to just wait it out, advice I felt was both misguided and harmful. And I implored Mishpacha readers not to try to “fix” situations like this, because I had seen for myself how my husband had managed to delude the well-meaning askanim who thought they could save our marriage.

“So please — daven,” I wrote, concluding my letter. “Daven with all your might for the thousands of children in our communities who are captives in these horrible situations.”

It’s hard to say if writing that letter made a difference to anyone in the world, even to me, but at least I felt like I was setting the record straight. Meanwhile the roller coaster that was my life continued.

When I passed children on the street who looked to be about the same age as one of my own, I felt torn. I’d hope to catch a glimpse of them while simultaneously praying that I wouldn’t, because facing their rejection was so incredibly painful. I would cook for days when my kids were scheduled to come for a meal, and then stare at the clock as the moments ticked by, realizing that they weren’t coming and that I was all alone in the world. Needing to hear my sons’ and daughters’ voices, I would pick up the phone to call them and then put it down, over and over again, too scared to dial because the inevitable hostility they radiated was just too much to handle.

My day-to-day existence was the definition of agony. My husband was a master of manipulation and deceit and had successfully turned everyone, including my kids, against me. I wouldn’t wish the stares I endured on my worst enemy, and if I tell you I felt like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest with their bare hands, I wouldn’t be exaggerating at all.

And still, I refused to give up on my children. I felt like there had to be something I could do to tip the scales, even slightly, in my direction. I started reading articles and books on parental alienation and devoured all the online lectures I could find.

Over time, I realized that maybe I couldn’t change anyone else or how they felt about me, but I could change me. I started focusing my davening on bettering my relationship with my children, channeling the anger and shame that were my constant companions into sincere tefillah. And I gave up fighting with my husband because that negative energy fueled him and gained me nothing.

But the real turning point came the day I attended a support group where a young girl named Chani*, who had previously been alienated from her father, shared her story. Chani told us how, throughout the years, her father sent letters and gifts to her and her siblings for their birthdays and for the Yamim Tovim. He kept on finding ways to reach out to let her and her brothers and sisters know that if they ever wanted to reconnect with him, the door was always open. Even as Chani endured her mother’s stomach-turning manipulation and abuse, she knew that as much as she hated her father in that moment, he would always be there for her.

Chani’s words colored my world in a new light. I decided to build myself into someone my children would want to return to when the time was right. I started taking a course I had wanted to take for years. I began listening to uplifting shiurim by Rabbi Paysach Krohn and Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky. And yes, I started sending my kids presents for all their celebrations, bringing over freshly baked cakes for Shabbos on Friday afternoons — doing whatever I could to show them that I was there for them. I even started calling my children every week, even though their monosyllabic answers made the conversations painful.

I’m not going to lie to you. It took a long time for anything to happen and there were more than a few moments when I wondered if this approach was ever going to bear fruit. Still, I refused to give up, hearing Chani’s voice echoing in my head.

And then one day it happened. Chava, my oldest daughter called me.

“Mom?” she said hesitantly. “I need help finding a summer job. Can you help me?”

I hung up the phone, sure I heard the malachei hashareis singing in three-part harmony behind me. It was just the tiniest of steps, but it was something. I managed to get Chava a job in the same place where I worked, and there were even days that we worked together. I respected Chava’s space, not wanting to push things too far, and over time, our relationship started getting better, one infinitesimally tiny bit at a time.

Shimon, my second son, was the next to reach out, followed by Zev, the next in line. It took a few years, but somehow, I reconnected with almost all my kids. Our relationships were fragile, to say the least, but they were there and they were real. My children knew that I was there for them, and they felt comfortable reaching out to me when they needed me. I found myself continually holding my breath, hoping that the positive momentum would continue.

The last holdout was Yaakov, my oldest son, who continued to reject my advances, even as my other children slowly began allowing me into their lives. On the rare occasion that I would ask Yaakov for his phone number, he would shut me down. And then came the day that I was on the phone with Leah, my youngest, and she told me that Yaakov wanted to talk to me.

To say that I was stunned would be the understatement of the year.

Yaakov? Wanted to talk to me?

I was terrified, afraid I might say the wrong thing, but I’d come this far and I wasn’t going back.

“Sure,” I told Leah. “I’d love to talk to Yaakov.”

I had just enough time to utter a single pasuk of Tehillim as Leah put Yaakov on the phone, but clearly Hashem had heard my tefillos and accepted them with love.

“Hi, Mom,” said Yaakov in a tentative voice. “I want to give you my phone number.”

Talk about jaw-dropping.

I felt like jumping up and down in utter jubilation, but I made sure to keep things low-key. I had dreamed of this moment for so long that I even considered framing that small scrap of paper bearing my son’s phone number.

Our journey continued at a snail’s pace, but thankfully, it continued. There were no fireworks or lightning bolts with things magically returning to what they once were in a flash of colorful lights. It took not days, not weeks, but years for us to settle into a new normal, and baruch Hashem, today I have a wonderful, normal parent-child relationship with all my sons and all my daughters, one that took endless gallons of blood, sweat, and tears, (as well as countless tefillos) to cement.

Even as my heart overflows with gratitude to HaKadosh Baruch Hu for giving me back my children, I know that there are brokenhearted parents who are suffering like I did. While every case is different, as someone who has experienced the unfathomable pain of parental alienation, I hope that these thoughts might be a source of chizuk, much like Chani’s words were a game changer for me.

When I originally sat down to write a letter to Mishpacha’s Inbox six and a half years ago, I was terribly hurt and angry. I felt like parts of the article were so off base, they could have been written by an alienating parent. I was sure the only thing I could do to fix the situation was doubling down on the legal route I was pursuing, and unwilling to consider that introspection or growth on my part could play a role in bringing my children back.

But having invested countless hours into realigning my perspective so that I could meet my children where they were, I realize that perhaps my anger, motivated as it was by so much pain, was misplaced. Writing these words during Elul, a period of time where we would all do well to take a good hard look at our actions, I wish that I could go back in time and take back my letter.

We’re all works in progress. May the new year be one where we see things with clarity and are blessed with endless simchah and brachah.

*Names have been changed

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1079)