My grandson came home from school yesterday carrying a bright yellow folder I had never seen before. He’s normally a chatterbox, the kind of ten-year-old who bursts through the front door ready to give you a play-by-play of recess, lunch, and everything in between. But yesterday was different.
He just tossed the folder onto the kitchen island, kept his head down, and went straight to his bedroom without looking me in the eye or saying a word. I knew something was off immediately. I walked over to the counter and opened the folder, thinking it was just a bad report card or a disciplinary note.
Instead, I found a thick stack of paperwork. As I started reading, my stomach dropped. They were consent forms for weekly counseling sessions—six months’ worth of them, fully signed and dated. Here is the massive glaring issue: I have full, unquestioned legal custody of this boy.
I have had it for years. Nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody, runs any kind of psychological evaluation, treatment, or questioning through my grandson without going through me first. I am his guardian in the eyes of the law, the state, and God. I immediately grabbed my phone and called the school administration.
My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the phone twice before I could dial the number. When the receptionist finally answered, I demanded to know why my grandson was being pulled into private counseling sessions without my knowledge or consent. She put me on hold for what felt like an eternity.
When she came back on the line, she used that overly calm, patronizing voice that school administrators use when they think you’re overreacting. She told me there was no mistake and that the sessions were perfectly legal because they had been authorized by his mother.
I had to grip the edge of the granite countertop to keep from screaming into the receiver. “His mother,” I said, my voice dangerously low, “lost custody in 2021.” I didn’t give the receptionist time to respond. I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys, and walked out the door.
The drive to the middle school usually takes fifteen minutes, but I made it in eight. My mind was racing the entire time. The custody battle in 2021 was the darkest, most exhausting period of our lives. My daughter-in-law had spiraled completely out of control, creating an environment that was deeply unsafe for a child.
The court didn’t just give me primary custody; they gave me sole legal and physical custody, with a very strict, supervised visitation schedule that she hadn’t bothered to follow up on in over two years. She hadn’t had the legal right to sign a permission slip for a zoo field trip, let alone authorize six months of weekly psychological counseling.
I marched through the double doors of the school and bypassed the main office entirely, heading straight for the counselor’s wing. I didn’t care about sign-in sheets or visitor badges.
