Please, don't take another child…
Louise Campbell and her new baby daughter Rachel
Saturday 1st September 2007
My ears were ringing and my head felt as if it was going to explode. My 3-month-old daughter, Rachel, was screaming in her cot, while my boyfriend, Kenny Campbell, 36, and I had another slanging match.
'I've had enough!' Kenny yelled.
'You've had enough?' I screamed. 'What about me?'
There was no denying it, the stress of fighting for custody of my daughter, Molly, 13, had got to us. You see, I hadn't just lost Molly. Two years before, my other kids, Omar, 22, Tahmina, 19, and Adam, 17, had also moved to Pakistan to be with their dad, Sajad Rana, 45.
I was now on good terms with my kids, and in close contact with Molly, but after the heartbreak of losing them, I'd clung to an image of the happy family that me, Kenny and Rachel would be. But, in reality, that image faded more every day. In November 2006, Kenny and I decided to separate.
After everything I'd been through, I knew how important it was for children to see both their parents. So Kenny rented a caravan nearby and, every two days, I let Rachel stay with him. It wasn't ideal, but like most separated parents, we tried to be civil and make the best of it.
Then, in May this year, I went to pick up Rachel as usual, and he dropped a bombshell.
'You're not taking her!' he yelled, clutching her to his chest.
What could I do? I wasn't going to wrestle him while he was holding our daughter.
I rushed out of the caravan and got into my car. Sinking my head on the steering wheel, hot tears ran down my face. How could this happen again? I'd fought one man for my children and lost. Surely I wasn't going to have to go through it all again?
Sajad had taken the children to Pakistan, where he was from, to bring them up as Muslims. But to me, this felt like Kenny was just trying to get back at me for rejecting him.
At home, I rang social services.
'Kenny has said you're mentally unfit to look after your daughter,' a social worker told me.
'I can't believe this is happening,' I sobbed.
I'd had a nervous breakdown in 1999 and took medication for depression and anxiety. It didn't affect my ability as a mother. But, because Kenny's name was on Rachel's birth certificate, in the eyes of Scottish law, he had as much right to have her as I did.
So while social services spoke to my doctor, health visitor and psychiatrist to see if I was capable of looking after Rachel, all I could do was hope and pray. Each day that passed felt like torture. On the first day, I walked past Rachel's room and burst into tears.
It took a month for the report to be compiled. Not one of the experts said I was an unfit mother. Not one. In fact, they commended me for the care I showed Rachel. But it wasn't enough.
'I'm afraid you'll have to take it to the courts to decide who gets custody,' my social worker told me. A terrible feeling of déj" vu swept over me. Court cases. Custody battles.
That night, I sat at home and decided to end it all. I had no strength left to fight another man intent on taking my child. I decided I'd leave a video message for Rachel using our camcorder, then I'd write letters to my other children in Pakistan.
I was about to go and get the bottle of paracetamol from the bathroom when something stopped me. Rachel. She needed her mum. What effect would it have on her life if I killed myself? For her sake, I knew I had to fight.
But it was hard. Then four days later, someone knocked on the door.
'Go away!' I shouted.
But they didn't.
'Open the door!' a woman yelled.
Eventually, I dragged myself out of bed to see my neighbour, Susan, standing there. She took one look at my greasy hair and pyjamas, and shook her head.
'I heard what happened,' she said. 'You can't just give up.'
Susan had always been a good neighbour, and I couldn't have been more grateful as she made the tea and handed me a mug.
'She's your daughter, you've got to get her back,' she urged.
And suddenly, it was like something clicked inside me. She was right. Rachel was my daughter. My own flesh and blood.
So I contacted the Western Isles advocacy service and they agreed to support me in court. On 17 July, I was granted an interim residency order.
'Yes!' I cheered, blinking back tears of relief.
It meant that Rachel could live with me.
As soon as I stepped out of the court, I sent a text to Molly in Pakistan to tell her the good news. Seconds later, my mobile beeped with a reply: I love you, give Rachel a big kiss for me.
That afternoon, Rachel was dropped off at my house. I held her so tightly, I felt I'd never let her go.
'Hello, my baby,' I said, breathing in her familiar smell. 'I've missed you so much.'
I've accepted that I won't be bringing up my other children but I will always be there for them and I know they love me. I feel like a mum again and that's the most important thing in my life. It's all I ever wanted.
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