When Happy Memories Are Stolen: The Unseen Cost of Coercive Control

When Happy Memories Are Stolen: The Unseen Cost of Coercive Control

Look at these photos and you’ll see what looks like a picture-perfect family. Laughter, adventure, love a little girl making memories that should last a lifetime. But what if I told you that these memories have been stolen? That behind every smile was a growing storm of control and fear, and that today, this little girl can’t remember the joy only the “bad times” she’s been told about?

This is the reality of family alienation and coercive control. What you don’t see in these photos are the weeks leading up to every visit constant demands, last-minute changes, and attempts to reduce our time together. There were endless instructions about what clothes she must wear, where we would be staying, and even who we could spend time with. If the other parent found out about an activity or accommodation, we’d be bombarded with threats about safeguarding issues, or warnings meant to frighten her about the place we were staying or the things we were doing.

Even the simple act of planning activities became a minefield. Sometimes, after an activity was recognized, she would suddenly change her mind often after being frightened about it. Every single moment was under scrutiny, and we were always left to worry about what could go wrong.

Her father would take photographs not because the other parent demanded it, but as evidence for the courts, for CAFCASS, to prove that she was having a good time. Parenting became about building a case, not just making memories. The pressure to document every smile, every outing, every moment of happiness was relentless.

The copious amount of time spent worrying was overwhelming. We’d be told worrying things, and then the phone would go unanswered for hours, sometimes longer. For a parent who isn’t there, this is a special kind of torture. There were times when, out of sheer desperation and concern, her father was forced to ask the police for a welfare check—only to be blamed for it, as though caring for his daughter was an act of aggression, not love.

We were kept in the dark, given little or no information about her wellbeing, and then criticised for not knowing or not listening. Lies were told about her whereabouts, false plans made, always “busy,” always some reason why daddy-daughter time couldn’t happen. School pickups were a nightmare plans would change at the last minute, or excuses would be made. Her father was forced to involve the school. They understood, but did nothing.

Solicitors’ letters flew back and forth so much time and money wasted while we were forced to prove, time and again, that our child was safe and happy. Drop-offs became a source of panic: we were always on a stopwatch, terrified of being late and the consequences that would follow. Every goodbye was rushed, ending with a hug and kiss at the end of the street, never right outside the house. And twenty minutes after every drop-off, we’d receive a list of everything we’d supposedly done wrong innocent things twisted out of context and manipulated to sound bad.

This is what alienating behaviour looks like. It’s the slow erasure of connection, the rewriting of a child’s memories, until all that’s left is someone else’s narrative. Now, three years have passed since we last saw her. She’s blocked us, her language repeating her mother’s. Do we blame her? No. She’s a child caught in the crossfire, repeating what she’s been told, living with a trauma that isn’t hers to carry.

The court system failed us. The CAFCASS reports were woolly and surface-level. Promises made in court like visiting her father in Sweden were never enforced. The professionals saw the signs but didn’t know what to do, and nothing changed. We changed ourselves, bent over backwards, spent thousands, lost sleep, lost peace, lost family. For what? For Richard to have a relationship with his daughter. For a little girl to know she is loved by both sides of her family.

Now, all we can do is heal. We carry the grief and the hope, knowing we may never see her again, knowing she’s growing up without her paternal family. We cannot change the past. But we can use our pain to help others survive this ordeal not to fix what’s broken, but to find peace, to reframe, to focus on healing.

If you’ve ever had to “prove” your parenting with photos, if you’ve received long lists of supposed mistakes after every visit, if your plans have been sabotaged or your time together controlled, if you’ve been left in the dark and blamed for caring please know you’re not alone. There is life on the other side of heartbreak. And there is always hope.