Good luck, Precious

As a step/bonus parent, I knew what I was becoming and where this family was going to go: to live together, try to be happy, and support our kids’ dreams.

My husband and I talked about having kids of our own, but having three between the two of us was busy enough. We toyed with the idea but we agreed that we were happy where we were, check that off the list of things to talk about/decided together.

I love my children. I love my bonus babies  as if they were my own. I would die for them. Even if they don’t understand my level of love and respect for them. But like most families, as well as 18 year olds, life throws curves and most of the time you’re hit with a foul ball. I was ready to step in and help, I have no idea what I am doing 98% of the time(simply because I don’t handle crisis situations or social situations well, seriously, it’s like holding a hot potato without mitts) and I haven’t really “experienced” life to the fullest, mostly playing it safe, I got into trouble but nothing worthy of the cops.

You do anything for your children. You believe them. You trust them. You walk through fire for them. At least I would, for all my babies. When a child tells you they are unhappy, they no longer want to live in their current home, they want to better themselves, you ask them questions to search their souls a little, make sure they aren’t acting out of anger, or worse: spite.

I will not fight dirty. I refuse. But . . . I will keep fighting until there is nothing left in me: mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

As a mother, I would never take a child from that parent(unless their lives were in danger), so I would ask, are you sure this is what you want? Once you give me the green light, game on! But I would still ask, are you sure you aren’t just angry? Thinking back to being 18, just 11 short years ago(short as in I still feel 18 kinda because I really haven’t changed much physically) I was 18 and angry. Looking back now, and having a great therapist, I realize what mistakes I made and how I treated people. It’s part of what made me who I am, it was a tough lesson but I don’t regret it.

I call my dad every day. Honestly. Ask him. Every single day. He’s my dad, I love him, he’s my only parent I have left. I call at least once a week to apologize for something I’ve done years ago. My dad called me when I was having my crisis. My dad was supportive, calm, understanding, and for once, I didn’t get a life lesson/lecture. My dad has been through a similar scenario. The difference is his blended family split up. But looking at the similarities between my current situation and when I was 12-14, funny how that works out.

I have put my life on hold to work on my family. I have put an undisclosed amount of money towards these goals/end results. I have lost trust and still have given chance after chance after chance. Then end of April (my personal crap month) and beginning of May rolled around, after suspicious activity, questionable motives, and a short trust leash, the phone call came. It was Precious. He needed help. He wanted help. He made mistakes. He made lots of mistakes. He had hit rock bottom. Alone. Nothing to his name but his car. We have been here before.

Think back to being 18. What were you doing? Who were your friends? Did you have rules? How about a job? Now look where you are now. Do you live in the same town? Are you with the same person? How much have you changed? How about children? Are you in charge of raising little rugrats? A mortgage? Rent? Car payment? Nine times out of ten, being 18 wasn’t so bad.

I called Precious. In my mind, we have a great relationship, I feel he is honest and open (sometimes a little too open) with me, maybe it’s easier to talk to me, who knows? I had to hear it from his own mouth, I had to hear his voice for myself. . .

I did bad things. . . 

Did you hurt someone?! Are you hurt?! Did you commit a crime!? 

No. . . I did acid. . . And other things



Did NOT see that coming. . . Acid?! Really!? I feel as if Wavy Gravy needs to make a PSA, “The acid in the red cups is bad!” It’s 2016. Acid?

I want help. I need help. I want to get better, get clean. 

Ok, that’s a good place to start. 

And then it began.

A little wary since we have been down this road before. We’ve heard his wishes to live with us only to get a lawyer, pay a whole bunch of fees, get all information/requirements to make arrangements, only to be informed the plan was not the real plan. Crushing. Devistating! Not just for me hut for my husband and the littles, they were looking forward to their big brother living with them. They could see him and play whenever they wanted. A younger siblings dream come true.

This is your last chance. You crushed me and your fatherbtheblast time you said you needed help and wanted to live with us. 

I know. I wouldn’t do it again. 

This is your last chance with me. I don’t have to care but I do. I don’t have to help you but I do. I don’t have to treat you like you are my child but I do. If you screw me over this time, I am done, you are done, and you will not be allowed back in this house and that’s from me. I will not let you keep hurting your dad the way you have in then past and I sure as hell refuse to let you hurt those two littles who love you and look up to you again. 

I know, I really want to live with you guys. I really want to get help, I need help. 

Ok, you know the rules, they haven’t changed. And you will be losing privileges and freedoms until I can trust you. And if you screw around driving any of my cars and wreak them, I will kill you. No texting and screwing with your phone while driving. 

Ok, “Mom”

Damn right! I love you like you are mine, if I didn’t care I wouldn’t give a damn what you were doing. 

And that was that.

Fast forward: things aren’t bad, still some communication problems and motivation issues but that is expected from a teenager during summer. But he was told what was expected of him beforehand. We need to visit my in-laws, we have to, it’s their anniversary, it will be a nice visit. Rules still apply. First night curfew: 1:30am. Arrives back with 30 seconds to spare. I was asleep on the blow up mattress, my husband was awake, he noticed the car dropping of Precious wasn’t leaving, as Precious was already inside. Interesting. . . But what do I know. Precious tells his dad that he had one beer.


Next day, Saturday: Precious leaves at 5 with his friend. Same rules, same curfew. The story I was told:

I’m going to hang out with Friend A and his dad until Friend B gets home. 


Fast forward 7 hours:

His curfew is approaching, should we take bets on if he will be early or late?

Might as well make it interesting. It’s my first time waiting for a child to come home for a late night curfew.

Anyway, my brother in law is a bounty hunter and bondsman. He has a vehicle that is equipped with lights, radio, child lock back doors, tactical gear, etc. how funny would it be to wait in the “Bountymobile” and when he gets home, scare him and his friend by flipping the berries and cherries. I bet they did a little more than drink and would run.

So here we are, three grow ass adults staking out an 18 year old.

He has 15 minutes. Do you think he’s going to make it?


He better make it back in time. 


We leave. The boys know this town, we check every friends house, his mom’s house, cousin’s, and then returned back to my in laws home. Just by chance he came back.


We searched, called, texted, knocked on doors, drove to places that made me uneasy and scared, talked to all his friends. . .

Hadn’t seen him

Didn’t know he was back

He just left

I don’t know where he is

We searched until dawn. We informed the police we were looking for him, he had mentioned to his mother that he was depressed and thought about suicide. That’s a serious thing to say! Of course we were scared and worried about his well being.


We finally get word. Precious called the local police department. He told the officers he was eighteen years old and a legal adult and he didn’t want anything to do with us.

I could hear my husband’s heart break. He won’t admit it but his soul shattered.

A plethora of emotions: hate, sorrow, agony, rage, fury, all whirling around and the questions, the aching questions!

We can’t worry about that now, we have to get home and get “BBK” on the way home, our friend playing in a pool tournament. I am sending messages for my husband while he drives. Making arrangements for the next step: getting Precious’ possessions out of our house along with his car back down to Salt City.

We are no longer working on your terms, child, you will get you things tonight.

The longest 3 1/2 hour drive home, drop the littlest kids with other parents and start packing all of his belongings.

MADD Dogg is helping while we wait for her mom to pick her up. The tears won’t stop. Shaking head to toe. Trying to pack all of his things before he gets there. We got a message stating Precious was on is way with his mother.

How much time do we have?


They were already in our town before we got there.

There are three cops on our street. They are right outside my house.

I respect the law, I respect police officers, I will not make their job any harder. I can’t talk to them. I can’t stand anywhere near them, I was nowhere near as composed as my husband. I’m trembling. Hysterically crying. My bonus son stabbed my husband and myself in the back and spit on us with disrespect.

5 years

5 years!

I let you into my heart and into my life. I shared my family with you. My son adored you and your sister called you her best friend!

For five years I helped you through some weird, some tough, and normal life situations. With a twist. We weren’t normal. I like to think we should be an example of the new norm. Blended families are tough and I believed we had made it out of the darkness of something I had hoped to never face. A son who was an addict and abused our love and kindness.

You kept telling everyone your plans

When I’m 18, I’m not gonna listen to nobody. Im an adult 

You told the cops you didn’t want anything to do with us.

Wish granted, my son.

I have my littles to protect, even if it’s from their own brother. I can’t trust you with them. I can’t trust what you would tell them. I can’t speak for my daughter but I can speak for my son, you will not speak to him until he is older. I will not speak to you until the same amount of blood, love, and tears has passed. Maybe in five years you will grow up and take more responsibility. If you get arrested, I don’t have bail money.

I am not speaking for my husband, I can’t. If you need help, reach for him, his number has never changed, he’s always been there. If he’s working, leave a message. I will say your father won’t call back unless you leave a message, he thinks it wasn’t important or a miss dial if he sees a missed call.

I am speaking for me. I know the truth. I can sleep at know with a clear conscience and a good heart.

I know you are my husband’s son, at one point, I believed, truly in my heart, that you were mine.

I hope you choose to live in the light of the truth. I hope you learn to accept responsibility. I hope you learn the feeling of freedom of living with a good and truthful heart

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