I was married for twelve years. I had three boys and loved them to bits. I worked hard during the week and at weekends took them out, to the park or to play football or to see their cousins.

My wife and I began to argue, and it got worse and worse, until one day something inside me snapped. I couldn’t take anymore of the constant rowing so I left. I thought we would sort things out, go to marriage guidance or something. But she filed for divorce ten days later and has not spoken a word to me since, unless it is to shout or swear at me in front of the children.

She got the house, my savings and three quarters of my income a month. I got the debts. And court costs, both sets. I went bankrupt.

The children came to stay with me at my flat. We had great times together. My eldest son and I had a special bond. We would curl up in front of the television and he would fall asleep on my chest, warm and snug. All three asked if they could come and live with me. Not yet, I said. I needed time to sort myself out.

When I picked them up their mum always swore and shouted at me in front of them. She put them outside in winter in t-shirts and I had to buy them clothes just to keep them warm. It was a desperate situation. Then they stayed with me one Christmas Eve and asked if they could stay over, I rang their mum. She wouldn’t even talk to me and was very drunk so I kept them with me until morning.

After that she decided I couldn’t see the boys anymore. I went to court. I sent cards and letters. They never arrived. I sent money and presents. The children never got them. They were told I didn’t love them anymore. Then came the lies…”He beat me up. He wants to abduct the children. He robbed me.” The court made me see the boys in a contact centre. And I did, every two weeks without fail.

I had a psychiatrist report to prove I wasn’t mad. The Cafcass officer said I would be ok to see them, and I was looking forward to going to court and having proper contact at last. Then they moved to the other side of the country without telling the judge or me and I spent months trying to find them.

I found them eventually and the whole process started again, new court, new Cafcass officer, new reports. I traveled for 700 miles every two weeks for two hours contact. I only saw two of my children. The eldest one stopped coming. He said he hated me. He said I lied. Then the middle one stopped coming. He said I hit his mum and I spent all my time getting drunk. They said I didn’t love them.

No, I traveled all that way and spent four years fighting in court and never gave up – because I didn’t love them!! I even asked the court if they could live with me. The court laughed. The court laughs at fathers a lot in this country.

My youngest son never gave up on me. We had great times together, just the two of us, but the pain he went through to see me – it tore me apart. The lies, the hurt, the torment… from his own family.

Is it possible that a mother’s hatred for her ex husband could be greater than her love for her own children and that she could set her children against each other because of her own bitterness?

She said I couldn’t see the youngest anymore and the judge said he couldn’t make her. The youngest boy was being hurt every time he was due to see me. I had to give up.

I don’t cry myself to sleep anymore. I have accepted the way things are but I will never give up hoping. My youngest son is still mine. He has me in his heart. And when the eldest want answers, I have the court papers, the truth written in black and white.

Will I be angry with them? No, I wait, arms outstretched, mourning for the loss of the sons I once knew and dreaming for their return to their rightful place with their father, who loves them more than anything in the world.

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