Month three of the blog.
Three months of writing. Three months of deep conversations. Three months of helping others navigate a situation that seems neverending.
This situation with my daughter's father somehow gets more absurd as time goes on. As soon as I think I've adjusted to the latest version of reality...he throws a wrench.
The newest development in the ongoing saga of "How Hard Can It Be To Let A Child Talk To Her Mother?" is that the original Monday-Wednesday-after-6PM communication agreement (that was never honored) has apparently evolved into a highly specialized scheduling system that requires clairvoyance.
According to my daughter's father, I can no longer call during the agreed-upon times. Instead, I need to contact her when it's convenient around his work schedule, when she's in the optimal mood, when she's feeling healthy, and when it works around her activities.
A reasonable request on paper.
Except for one tiny detail.
I am not psychic.
I politely explained that if the ideal calling window is determined by factors I have absolutely no access to, then it would require him to contact me when that magical moment arrives.
A few days later, he texted.
"Tomorrow morning."
Great.
A plan.
A specific time.
Something concrete.
So I did what responsible adults do. I cleared my schedule. I rearranged work commitments. My fiancé rearranged his work commitments. Meetings got canceled. Appointments got moved. We shuffled an entire day's worth of responsibilities because maintaining contact with my daughter is worth every inconvenience.
Tomorrow morning came.
And went.
By noon, I received a message that my daughter was still asleep.
Still asleep.
At noon.
I was told he would let me know when she was available.
At approximately 2:50 PM, I got the green light.
By this point my fiancé was already at work. Since our car is currently living its own adventure at the repair shop, I walked to his workplace to get the iPhone we use for these calls. Then I found a quiet location, got everything set up, and prepared myself to finally hear my daughter's voice.
About fifteen minutes later, I called.
No answer.
Immediately afterward, I received a text informing me that it was no longer a good time and we'd have to try again at a later date.
That's it.
That's the whole story.
If this sounds ridiculous to you, congratulations. Your grasp on reality remains intact.
Meanwhile, there is still no update on the court case. No hearing date. No acknowledgment. No movement. The legal system appears to be operating on the same timeline as continental drift.
Every day feels like checking the mailbox during a snowstorm. Technically something could arrive. Realistically, you're mostly just standing outside getting cold.
The bright spot in all of this has been my writing.
And honestly, I didn't expect that.
My books are selling.
Not "my mom bought a copy and my best friend felt obligated" selling.
Actually selling.
Enough that Square apparently decided my account activity looked suspicious and shut the account down pending review. Which is simultaneously frustrating and weirdly flattering.
Imagine working for years toward something and then getting flagged because people are actually buying it.
Life remains committed to keeping me humble.
So if you've purchased one of my books, please consider sending me a letter or email confirming your purchase. Every bit of documentation helps, both for the account review process and for demonstrating public support for my work.
To everyone who has purchased, shared, recommended, reviewed, or even mentioned my books to another person: thank you.
You have no idea how much that support means.
Outside of writing, I've been throwing myself into projects because sitting still has never been my strong suit. I've been researching, organizing evidence, documenting everything, building future plans, and trying to create something positive from circumstances that often feel impossible.
Some days that looks productive.
Some days it looks like rage-cleaning my entire apartment while listening to NBA Youngboy.
Growth isn't always glamorous.
As an Italian Scorpio from the city, I can assure you that stubbornness is both my greatest strength and my most exhausting personality trait. I refuse to quit. Unfortunately, I also refuse to stop thinking about things, which means my brain operates like a twenty-four-hour convenience store that never closes.
But here we are.
Still waiting.
Still documenting.
Still showing up.
Still hoping.
And still believing that children deserve access to the people who love them.
Before I end this month's update, I want to say something to the alienated parents reading this.
I see you.
I see the screenshots you've saved.
The calendars you've marked.
The calls you've scheduled.
The birthdays you've missed.
The holidays that hurt.
The photos you stare at when nobody is looking.
I see the strength it takes to keep reaching out when every attempt feels like it disappears into a void.
People will tell you to move on.
To stop fighting.
To accept it.
But loving your child isn't something you simply turn off because someone else made it difficult.
There are days when hope feels heavy.
There are days when anger feels easier.
There are days when you wonder if your child will ever know how hard you tried.
Keep going anyway.
Keep documenting.
Keep showing up.
Keep loving them.
Even from a distance.
Especially from a distance.
One day, our children will be old enough to ask questions. One day, they will look for the missing pieces. One day, the truth won't need permission to be heard.
Until then, if you're carrying this weight too, know that you're not invisible.
You are seen.
And for whatever it's worth, you're not carrying it alone.
This version should read more like a substantial monthly update rather than just a recap of events, while keeping your voice frustrated, witty, and determined.