I didn’t expect summer to start with a plastic palace in our yard—a giant above-ground pool dropped off by my husband’s ex, Irina. We’d asked for help with groceries. She gave us PVC and pump filters.
The next morning, I found the pool full of tightly tied garbage bags. Inside: spoiled meat, receipts, the stench of rot. Hundreds of dollars in food, wasted.
Irina texted: “Didn’t know what to do with it. You can toss it.”
We were struggling. Our kids were eating eggs and rice, and she dumped meat in a pool meant for them.
A few days later, CPS showed up—anonymous tip. Timing made it clear who sent it. But the caseworker saw the truth, just like we did.
Then Naima, ten, got sick—mild food poisoning. She’d secretly eaten from one of the bags, thinking it was hamburger.
We documented everything. Dalen, finally done staying quiet, called Irina: “Do this again, and I’ll file for custody.” She hung up.
Then she filed first—accusing us of neglect.
In court, Naima told the truth: “I miss vegetables. I don’t like the empty feeling.”
We didn’t win full custody—but we won summer. And peace. And a secondhand pressure cooker on the porch with Naima’s drawing: spaghetti, smiles, a full table.
We drained the pool. Replaced it with sprinklers, dollar-store water guns, spice jars, and second chances.
If someone’s rewriting your story, keep your receipts. The truth takes its time—but it shows up.
Every. Single. Time.
