My husband, Bob, and I never truly got along. Our temperaments clashed, mightily, even when we chose to marry a decade earlier. In Texas, the fifth state I moved to for his career, our resentments went haywire. We lost respect. We were mean. We led separate emotional lives. Contemplating my children’s ages in August 2002, I weighed the consequences of staying or going. Then, I found a subpoena in the mailbox.
My eyes flew over the pages. Bob had filed a motion for divorce; fault grounds were not required. I must say that I wasn’t alarmed until I landed on the words “geographic restriction” and “within county lines.” Section 153.001(a)(1) of the Texas Family Code would restrain me in Dallas until my children left for college. That was 14 more years. As in certain other states, the “noncustodial” parent (the one with whom the children reside a minority of the time) — in this case my daughters’ father — is protected by a policy that supports easy access to the kids. Bob could allow a relocation beyond the physical limits set by the court. But if he chose not to, the children had to remain.
Bob chose not to.
I felt dizzy and nauseated and went into the yard. Wooden planks fenced in the lawn, a gated door locked with a bolt. The air heaved with August heat, and ripples rose up from the stone. I walked the perimeter, turning the corners like a wind-up soldier, the sun burning me up. Texas was a flaming hell right then.
“You’re going to imprison me here?” I remember asking him, standing in the kitchen.
I was forced to raise my kids in Texas for 14 years
My eyes flew over the pages. Bob had filed a motion for divorce; fault grounds were not required. I must say that I wasn’t alarmed until I landed on the words “geographic restriction” and “within county lines.” Section 153.001(a)(1) of the Texas Family Code would restrain me in Dallas until my children left for college. That was 14 more years. As in certain other states, the “noncustodial” parent (the one with whom the children reside a minority of the time) — in this case my daughters’ father — is protected by a policy that supports easy access to the kids. Bob could allow a relocation beyond the physical limits set by the court. But if he chose not to, the children had to remain.
Bob chose not to.
I felt dizzy and nauseated and went into the yard. Wooden planks fenced in the lawn, a gated door locked with a bolt. The air heaved with August heat, and ripples rose up from the stone. I walked the perimeter, turning the corners like a wind-up soldier, the sun burning me up. Texas was a flaming hell right then.
“You’re going to imprison me here?” I remember asking him, standing in the kitchen.
I was forced to raise my kids in Texas for 14 years
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