I Am Livid—Part 2

I Am Livid — Part 2

I wanted to burn everything down—but I didn’t

This week pushed me further than I’ve been in a long time.
Not just angry—
dangerously close to becoming someone I said I’d never be again.

This is a follow-up to my last post, “I Am Livid.”

I wish I could say things calmed down after that.

They didn’t.

It started with something that should never be a problem.

Food.

One of my daughters reached out again, telling me there wasn’t any. Not for the first time. She told me the fridge had been broken for a while. The younger two were being fed. The older two? Not so much.

And it wasn’t just about food.

It was about how quickly things changed when they weren’t fully “on her side.”

That night, everything came to a head. My older two finally opened up about what was really going on in that house. I pushed them—gently but firmly—to send me proof.

When the pictures came through, something in me snapped.

Due to the sensitive nature of the story,
I have elected to use AI Generated images

And at the same time… something else held.

It was probably a good thing I didn’t have a car that night. Because I know exactly what I would have done. It would have felt right in the moment.

And it would have destroyed everything after.

That night I didn’t sleep more than a few hours. I had a mix of both rage and a kind of sadness I didn’t know I was capable of feeling. I was crying. I was ready to scream. I was angry enough that I honestly worried about what I might do if I left the house in that state.

My heart broke for my older two.

And I was scared for my younger two.

The next morning, I didn’t act on emotion.

I sought wisdom.

I spoke to men I trust—men who don’t just react, but think. And I made the hardest decision a father can make in a moment like that:

I went to Children’s Aid.

Not a phone call. In person.

I sat there and laid everything out. I showed them what I had. I stayed until I knew I had been heard.

And still… it wasn’t enough.

I was told there was no evidence of imminent danger.

No immediate action.

No removal.

Just process.

Just time.

I asked them what I was supposed to tell my kids—the ones who were counting on me to protect them.

“Have them call us.”

That was the answer.

So they did.

My older two went in themselves that same day.

And everything escalated.

Children’s Aid tried to go to the house. She wouldn’t open the door. Police showed up. Same result. No entry. No action. No urgency.

My kids were told to go home.

To call 911 if something happened.

Think about that.

Children. Being told to go back into a situation they were afraid of—and call for help if it got worse.

During all of this, my ex was calling me.

Over and over.

And I ignored every call.

Not because I didn’t have something to say.

But because I had too much to say.

I had been praying for wisdom for days. And in that moment, wisdom was loud and clear:
Do not engage.

Because I knew exactly what would come out of my mouth.

I would have told her to open that door or I’d be encouraging the police to break it down.

And worse.

I didn’t trust myself in that moment.

So I stayed silent.

Eventually, the situation forced its way open.

The police went in.

There were arguments. Threats of arrest. Chaos.

And then something I didn’t expect:

She didn’t want them there.

My kids were removed.

Not because the system acted fast.

But because she pushed them out.

That night, my children slept in a Children’s Aid office.

And I sat there with two completely different emotions fighting inside me.

Relief… and rage.

Relief that my older two were safe.

Rage that my younger two were still there.

That the system could look at everything and still leave an 8-year-old and a 5-year-old in that environment.

I didn’t care about anything else in that moment.

Not history.

Not process.

Not policy.

Just my kids.

I cried for a long time that night.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

The next day didn’t bring peace.

Just uncertainty.

My kids were placed in temporary homes. There were conversations, explanations, policies, legal thresholds. Words like “standards” and “legislation.”

All I heard was this:

It’s very hard to remove kids.

Even when you know something is wrong.

That day was heavy.

I had questions no one could answer.

And emotions I couldn’t shut off.

By Friday, reality started to settle in.

This wasn’t going away quickly.

There was a meeting. Information was shared—some of it helpful, some of it carefully limited. Investigations. Confidentiality. Boundaries.

I was reminded, indirectly, that this system doesn’t work for me.

And I need to be careful.

So I will be.

But don’t mistake that for weakness.

Because behind that restraint is a fire that hasn’t gone out.

I’m doing what I can right now for my older two. Replacing what was destroyed. Picking up pieces that never should have been broken.

And yes—I’m angry.

What kind of mother destroys her own children’s things out of spite?

What kind of person makes their kids feel unwanted in their own home?

She wants a divorce?

Fine.

We’re aligned on that.

But I will spend the rest of my life making sure my kids are protected, supported, and never made to feel like they don’t matter.

I don’t have much right now.

But I will use everything I have.

She kept calling.

Again and again.

And again, I didn’t answer.

Because there was nothing she could say that would make this better.

Later, my daughter convinced me to call.

So I did.

Not for her.

For my kids.

I asked the questions that needed answers.

Why didn’t you want them home?
Why are they the problem?
How do you justify this?

The answers were exactly what you’d expect.

“If that’s what they wanted, they can have it.”

Even Children’s Aid reportedly called those responses inappropriate.

But the damage was already done.

Because words like that don’t just explain a situation.

They leave scars.

They make kids feel unwanted.

Unloved.

Disposable.

I wanted to burn everything down this week.

Every instinct in me said: act.
Force it. Fix it. Make it stop.

I was ready to go to my ex-wife’s home and take matters into my own hands.

But that was the old me.

The LORD has been working in me—and in that moment, it became clear why.

“He cuts off every branch that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more.”
— John 15:2 (NLT)

Taking things into my own hands might have solved one problem.

But it would have created bigger ones. Permanent ones.

God is removing things in me that don’t bear fruit.

And one of those things… is the man who reacts without thinking, who destroys in the name of protecting.

That part of me is being cut away.

And pruning isn’t clean. It isn’t comfortable.

It hurts.

But I can see it now—this is part of the work being done in me.

Because I refuse to become the kind of man who makes things worse while trying to make them better.

If you’ve never felt powerless as a parent, you won’t understand this.

But if you have…

If you’ve ever had to sit there and do nothing while everything in you screamed to act…

If you’ve ever had to choose restraint over destruction…

Then you know exactly what this feels like.

I may be down, but I will not become the man I had to be to survive.