Filing the PFA Wasn’t the End—It Was Just the Beginning
- chardonnaycustodya
- Jul 6
- 4 min read

I wish I could say filing for a PFA (Protection From Abuse) was the end of the nightmare. That it was my dramatic movie moment where I slammed the courthouse doors behind me and rode off into a safe, quiet life. But no.
Filing that stack of paper was just the prologue to a brand-new level of hell. One where I was still the mom, still holding five lives together, but now with a target squarely on my back.
Monday: The $3,000 Reality Check
It started with my lawyer. She told me she’d draft the paperwork—for a “modest” $3,000—and that I could pick it up Thursday morning. Alone. She wouldn’t be coming with me to court. She probably had Pilates.
I spent the next three days spiraling between panic attacks and self-delivered TED Talks about courage.
This is the man who:
Threatened to plant drugs on me.
Bragged about his kill count from the Marines.
Sent me articles about husbands murdering their wives mid-divorce.
This wasn’t going to go quietly.
Thursday: Courthouse or Firing Squad?
Thursday came. My lawyer wasn’t even in the office. A random secretary handed me the papers like I was picking up a coffee order.
I walked into family court alone, clutching that stack like it might physically shield me. Spoiler: it wouldn’t.
The intake clerk was cold. Like DMV-cold but with trauma. Upstairs, I waited in a holding pen full of people whose faces screamed “how did my life end up here?”
An hour later, I was sworn in. The judge—stoic in robes—asked a few perfunctory questions. But what stuck with me was his “reassurance”:
“Call the police. They probably won’t do anything—they hate dealing with domestic matters—but at least it’ll be documented. That’s all this paper does: it help you document.”
So comforting. Really.
Rookie Moves and Red Flags
The judge let me set custody terms. I should’ve said no contact. But no. Thirteen years of managing his rage had trained me to avoid poking the bear. I asked for exchanges at the police station and didn’t bar him from school or the kids sports events. I still believed I was the only one he’d hurt.
Spoiler again: I wasn’t.
Five Hours Later…
By hour five, the courthouse was a ghost town. A flustered secretary finally appeared:
“We’ve never had a PFA with this many children. No one knows how to list them all on the paperwork.”
Really? Five kids. Was I the first person in Delaware to have a big family?
I left with two sets of paperwork (three kids on one, two on another). What I didn’t leave with? Any actual sense of safety.
Waiting for the Bomb to Drop
No one could tell me when he’d be served. I just… waited.
Friday came. He picked up ABC and CCC but not the baby (he never wanted her). E didn’t want to go either. Then the calls started—over and over. I didn’t answer.
So he called E.
We were at Dairy Queen. Through the speakerphone I heard him:
“Where are you? I know you’re at Dairy Queen.”
E—calm as ever—replied:
“Yeah, we’re getting lunch.”
“Maybe I should show up there." - said X
E hung up. Queen behavior.
Saturday: The Eye of the Storm
Saturday was perfect. E and I went to see Barbie with my two best friends. We laughed, we cried, we felt seen.
But I knew it was coming.
Sunday: Detonation
Sunday morning, the phone rang again. And again. And again. I answered.
“I’ll make you homeless. You and the kids are going to be homeless.”“You’re trying to take MY kids away from me.”“You now owe me $150,000 to walk away from the house.”
I reminded him—calmly—that I hadn’t asked for no contact. He didn’t care.
Weirdly, I felt relief. The waiting was over. Narcissistic abuse survivors know: the dread is worse than the blow.
I recorded the call (Delaware’s a one-party consent state—thank you, lawyer).
The Drop-Off and the Double Standard
Twenty minutes later, his mom showed up at my door with all the kids. He was “too distressed” to parent.
The difference between us? In distress, I cling to my children. He discards them.
The Aftermath
Two weeks until the hearing. In that time:
He ignored the order to turn in his weapons.
A warrant was issued.
His dad hid the guns in my house.
His biggest fear? Losing his security clearance and being "forced to file file for child support from me if he lost his job." Not us. Not the kids.
The night before court, I emailed my lawyer asking about X's concerns about losing his job
“This could hurt his job. Maybe we drop the PFA and just do temporary custody?”
She wasn’t fighting for me. And I was too scared to fight alone. So I agreed.
Regrets and Realizations
The judge approved it. Police station exchanges. No calls—texts and emails only.
I left feeling like a failure.
But the truth? I made the best choice I could with the fear I carried.
And fear is a hell of a lawyer.

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