A relentless ride of injustice and abuse — and there’s no way off.
It has been a week.
I was served with an “emergency” motion in family court with only three days’ notice. To make it worse, it was filed in such a way that my lawyer had just ten minutes to respond if we wanted even the chance of an adjournment. We scrambled and filed in eighteen minutes. And then we waited. Hours before the decision finally came down that it had been adjourned—for three days, to Monday.
For once, the court system tilted in my favor. For once, it gave me the breathing space I needed.
Can you imagine how I felt in those hours of waiting? Thinking I might have to face my rapist in court and fight against his lawyer, with no legal training, no safety net, and the stakes being nothing less than my son’s future. He is asking for 50% custody. I am asking for supervised access once a week, no overnights. The difference between those two outcomes is everything.
And in that waiting, your thoughts spiral in so many different directions at once. A tangled mess of everything, unable to concentrate on anything. The lack of sleep, the nightmares, the need for sleeping pills just to shut it down. I’ve even dropped four pounds from not being able to eat with worry. A silver lining, maybe—but I’m always looking for them, because sometimes that’s all that keeps me upright.
Yes, I won in court before, when I fought for my daughter to fly overseas and the judge granted the order for consent to travel. But this? This is different. This is bigger. This is my son’s safety, and my trauma, colliding in a courtroom where the rules are stacked against me. They knew my lawyer wasn’t available. This is exactly what they were hoping for.
I dodged a bullet. If I had been forced to do it, I would have given it my all, poured every ounce of fight into protecting my son. But when I got the news that I wouldn’t have to, a huge weight lifted. I cried with relief.
If that adjournment hadn’t been granted, I would have been standing there by myself—me against a lawyer, with my ex sitting in the courtroom or looming large on a big screen. The thought of it was daunting, terrifying even. But the alternative—backing down and letting my son’s safety be swept aside—was never an option.
So, I did what I always do: I got to work. I prepared. I answered every single point in his motion. I pulled the documents, wrote the replies, and handed everything to my lawyer along with something extra: an attack plan. A plan not just to defend myself but to finally go after what he owes—every cent of back child support, every unpaid expense, every financial abuse tactic he has weaponized against me.
And then, by pure chance, I checked the court dockets.
Surprise: I was apparently scheduled in civil court to set a trial date. News to me—and apparently news to my civil lawyers too, when I called them. So at 9 a.m. yesterday, I was in court myself, ready to block it.
When I checked the actual paper docket, it listed me as unrepresented. WTF. I have a lawyer, and the court knows it. But by listing me that way and not informing me, they tried to sneak through setting a trial date. There should be some kind of comeback for that kind of stunt, but there isn’t. It was only by chance that I caught it.
The judge did at least remind his lawyer of his obligation to follow proper court procedure — that a Notice of Motion must be served at least five days in advance before attempting to have any matter scheduled. It was wrong, unethical even, but not technically illegal. And so it slips through the cracks.
I was fully prepared to argue my own adjournment, nerves and all. But then I saw my lawyers walk in. A wave of relief, yes—but also frustration. Would it have been too much to let me know they had it covered? Professional courtesy, perhaps? Instead, there I was, already standing before the honorable judge, and had to ask permission to sit back down now that counsel was present. Maybe it came out a bit snippy, but my emotions are running high these days.
In the end, the matter was adjourned until the end of October—not for a trial date to be set, but for the motion itself to be heard. And honestly, that’s fine by me. Because I now have a whole additional list—nine months’ worth—of corporate law violations, corporate fraud, and financial fraud to add into this civil motion.
Battle stations.
Whilst waiting to go into court, I found myself chatting with some lovely ladies and their counsel. We started talking about the justice system, and I said: we are strapped into the rollercoaster of law. Once buckled in, you cannot get off—even if you cry, scream, or desperately want it to stop. Buckle up and sit back.
Sometimes the rollercoaster crawls painfully slow. Sometimes it whips so fast through the twists and turns that you feel like you might pass out. Sometimes it gets stuck upside down, leaving you hanging there helpless until someone else decides to start it up again. And the worst part? You can’t see the tracks ahead. You’re blind in a tunnel, with no idea where you’re going.
I don’t like rollercoasters. And this one isn’t a thrill ride—it’s a Stephen King horror novel with no way off until, if and when, it finally ends. And I have no control over when that will be.
Even the lawyer I was talking to paused and said, “That’s a great catchphrase — the rollercoaster of law. Is that copyrighted? Because we might have to use it.” And it struck me in that moment: it’s not just the victims, the parents, the families like mine who feel trapped in this ride. The lawyers see it too. They know you can’t get off, no matter how hard you want to.
And then came another sideswipe of betrayal. Out of nowhere, I discovered that the principal of my son’s school had written a glowing character reference for my ex, addressed to the judge, describing him as an amazing and involved father. This, despite knowing he is facing eight criminal charges — including child abuse and uttering threats of loss of life and bodily harm against some of his own children. She even stated she hopes her words make a difference. What the actual hell.
It was a violation of school board policy, plain and simple. So I called the board, explained what had happened, and demanded it be addressed. To their credit, they got back to me with an official letter to the judge, making it clear that principals are not permitted to provide such references, and that any opinion she expressed was as a private individual, not in her professional role and is not a reflection of the board and should not have been on school letter headed paper. I thanked them for that — but I also asked the harder questions: what consequences will she face, and what training will principals receive to ensure this doesn’t happen again to another family in the middle of high-stakes criminal and family litigation?
This was a blind corner I didn’t see coming, a “flying monkey” moment straight out of the narcissist’s playbook. And it nearly knocked me off balance. It is these kinds of detours on the ride that take you down — the betrayals you don’t see coming.
Because this isn’t just about me. Yes, it was a betrayal and an abuse of power against me and my children — but it’s also about every parent who comes after me, every survivor who is already fighting uphill just to be heard. If my pushing back now means another principal thinks twice before crossing this line, or another parent doesn’t have to fight this extra battle, then that will be a win.
It’s these detours on the ride, the betrayals you don’t see coming, that knock you down. And now, I don’t even want my son in this school anymore. But until I have full decision-making authority, that’s not something I can change. Another twist in the ride, another battle waiting ahead.
And then there’s Monday. Urgh. Another round in family court. But at least this time I know my lawyer has everything he needs—I’ve sent him all the evidence, every argument, every detail to fight for custody of my son. It doesn’t make the waiting any easier, but it helps knowing the ammunition is ready.
Except—when I checked the court docket for Monday (they publish them in advance), my family motion wasn’t on there. Is that because it was moved on Thursday? Because it’s an emergency order? Or has it been withdrawn? I have no idea.
It feels like yet another blind corner on this rollercoaster. But this time, I’m going to lean into the ride and go with it. Throw my hands up, embrace the chaos, and shout: woot woot — let’s go. At 9 a.m. Monday, I’ll be in court, ready to fight if I need to.
I’ve prepared my answers to my ex’s motion — and now I’m going on the attack. I’m pushing back for over $80,000 in arrears and withheld monies. That number is staggering, yes, but it’s real. It includes land he sold illegally during litigation (not “criminal,” apparently, according to the system’s strange definitions), funds he refused to declare, and money he has never handed over as required. Every withheld dollar has a direct impact on our quality of life — on me, and on our children.
Last November, I came frighteningly close to having to line up at the food bank just to feed my kids. That’s how real this fight is. That’s the cost of his manipulation. And that’s why I won’t let it slide.
If Hydro One didn’t have a rule that you can’t cut the power off in the winter for people who fall behind on their bills, we would have been sitting in the dark too. But I turned even that rule into survival. I played Peter against Paul, knowing at least the lights would stay on while I juggled everything else. It cost me in interest, but it bought me time. And sometimes, that’s all survival is—finding the cracks in the system and using them to fight another day.
Luckily, I managed to get the child benefit put back in my name and not his — and that has been the only thing keeping us afloat. That government payment is what has allowed me to feed the kids, keep the bills covered, and stop the bank from foreclosing on the house.
Speaking of the house: the mortgage is up for renewal. It requires both of our signatures. I’ve already looped in his counsel, making it clear that it must be signed by the end of the month or it will roll into an open rate at a crushingly high interest level. Of course, this doesn’t touch him — he doesn’t pay the mortgage. His obligations are half the taxes and the insurance, and even those he hasn’t been paying. So if the mortgage rolls over, it’s me left holding the bag, legally forced to pay it all at a higher rate. That’s financial abuse in action. And yes, I am adding this straight into my court motion, asking the judge to order him to sign.
So stand by. If I can’t add it onto Monday’s motion if that is even still happening, I will be filing an emergency motion of my own. Because I am sick of always reacting, of always playing defense while he bends and twists the rules.
It’s time to move to the attack.
This time, I am not just surviving. I am writing, healing, fighting, and showing up armed with truth, evidence, and determination.
This ride may be relentless. But I’m buckled in, gripping the rails, and I’m not backing down.
And now that this week is finally over? I’m down nine pounds. Stress, sleepless nights, and no appetite will do that to you. A silver lining, maybe—if you squint. But it’s also a reminder: this fight takes a piece of me every time. And still, I keep showing up.
I am riding this until it ends. And although they can make the ride as torturous as possible—with every twist, every turn, every loop-the-loop they force me through—I am only getting stronger, and one vertical drop closer to the ride being over.
Because they can’t get off either. And although they thought they were in control, they aren’t. They’re about to discover that the track they’ve been racing down is missing whole sections—and their plunge is coming.
But for now, I have a weekend to breathe. To rest and recoup. I started it with breakfast at a friend’s house — a simple but needed kindness that grounded me after the chaos of the week. My son is booked in for a haircut, and we’ll keep moving through the usual routines—swimming lessons, his work, walks in the crisp fall air to admire the colours.
I even scored a small win for myself—three pieces of gym equipment, including an elliptical and an exercise bike, for $60. Once I clear space in the garage, we’ll have a little winter workout corner. It might sound small, but it feels huge: a chance to move, to boost our moods, to keep going strong even when the snow closes us in. A win-win.
This weekend is about my kids, catching up on chores, getting the yard ready for fall, and then being ready for 9 a.m. Monday morning to battle again.
On this rollercoaster of law, for now at least, I’m throwing my hands up, leaning into the ride, and shouting: Woot woot — let’s go! They can try to twist the tracks, but I’m still here, and I’m riding it to the end.
