Spotted Lily and Jake getting out of his car this morning outside Meadowbrook Primary. I was dropping my neighbour’s kids off — she’s away and trusts me with the school run, which is both a blessing and torture.
They were maybe twenty metres away. Lily’s grown so much, her hair’s longer now, and Jake’s got that same messy fringe he’s always had. He was carrying that battered Pokemon rucksack I bought him years ago, the one he refused to replace even when the zip broke.
I sat in the car afterwards for ten minutes, just crying. They looked happy enough, chatting to their friends, but there was something in Lily’s shoulders — she always carries stress there, same as me.
The solicitor’s been clear about not approaching them at school. ‘It could be construed as harassment, Sarah. Don’t give him ammunition.’ So I watch from a distance like some kind of stalker of my own children. The irony isn’t lost on me.
But seeing them… God, it hurts so much but I needed it. Needed to see they’re real, they’re growing, they’re still in the world. Sometimes after months of silence I start wondering if I dreamed them entirely.
Jake dropped his water bottle and a girl from his class picked it up for him. He said thank you. I taught him that. Some part of what I gave them is still there, even if they can’t remember me right now.
I drove home and called my therapist. Emergency session this afternoon. Some days the grief hits like a freight train when you least expect it. Today was one of those days.
But I saw them. They’re OK. That has to be enough for now.
Oh Sarah, this has me in tears. The Pokemon rucksack detail — Christ, that nearly broke me. I know exactly that feeling of seeing something you gave them still being part of their world.
I haven’t seen my twins in over four years now but I had a moment like this about eighteen months ago outside Westfield. They were with their dad and his wife, coming out of JB Hi-Fi, and for a split second I thought about just walking up and saying hello. But you’re right about the legal stuff — my solicitor gave me the same warning. “Don’t give him any reason to say you’re unstable or harassing them.” So I ducked behind a bloody pillar and watched them from thirty metres away like some kind of criminal.
What got me was how tall they’d gotten. Emma was wearing this crop top I never would have let her wear at that age, and Tom had his hair in this trendy cut that looked nothing like the bowl cut he used to insist on. They looked like teenagers, not the 7-year-olds I’d kissed goodbye four years earlier. But Tom still had this habit of touching his ear when he’s thinking — something he’s done since he was tiny. That little gesture, it was like a lifeline. Proof that underneath all the time and distance, they’re still my boys.
The grief afterwards is indescribable. You think you’re coping and then something like that happens and you realise you’re just barely holding it together. I’m glad you called your therapist. Some days we need all the help we can get just to keep breathing.
This stopped me in my tracks. The school run thing is brutal — I’ve been there.
I used to drive past Emma’s school sometimes, just hoping for a glimpse. Never got out of the car, never broke any rules, but that feeling of watching your own child like you’re some stranger… it cuts deep. Seven years on and I still remember the weight of it, sitting there with the engine running and my heart breaking.
You’re right though — seeing them matters. Even from a distance. Even when it hurts like hell. I used to tell myself I was checking they were real too, that they were still walking around in the world without me. Some days that glimpse was the only proof I had that being their dad wasn’t just something I’d imagined.
The fact that Jake still has that Pokemon bag, that he said thank you — you’re in there, Sarah. In ways that matter. The good stuff doesn’t just disappear, even when they can’t see us right now.
The school run is brutal. I’ve done that exact same thing — sat in the parking lot at Lincoln Elementary watching my kids from across the lot, trying to memorize everything about them before I have to leave.
My lawyer gave me the same speech about not approaching. It’s the cruelest kind of torture, being that close to your own children but not being allowed to say hello.
Glad you called your therapist. Those surprise grief waves will knock you flat if you don’t have somewhere to put them.
god that bit about jake saying thank you, i felt that in my chest. you taught him that and no one can take that away from you, all those little things we put into them are still there even when everything else feels ripped away.
i did the same thing last month, saw my boys at the leisure centre when i was picking up my friend’s daughter from swimming. charlie was in his football kit, probably just finished training, and he looked taller somehow? like how do they grow so much in just a few months. i wanted to run over so badly but my solicitor said the same thing about not approaching, it’s like we’re criminals for wanting to see our own children.
sat in the car park for ages afterwards just watching other families walk past thinking how did this become my life. but you’re right, seeing them real and solid and just being kids… it hurts like hell but it’s also something. proof they exist, proof this isn’t all just a nightmare.
that emergency therapy session sounds like exactly what you need xx