By Annie Kenny, Photo: iStock, The Washington Post, February 17, 2022
There’s this place around the corner from you, seemingly insignificant, but it hosts a house of horrors. It’s a place where the same therapists, medical providers and teachers who are legally required to report suspected child abuse are not allowed to save a child before more abuse occurs. Where truth is obsolete, and right and wrong don’t matter.
It’s called family court. And I’ve been trapped there for four years now.
Before I ever stepped foot into a family courtroom, my now ex-husband had already been convicted of sexually abusing a minor. He already was a Tier III registered sex offender for life. It was determined that for the safety of society as a whole, his photo, address and vehicle description needed to be posted publicly for all to see for the rest of his life. None of that outweighed his “parental rights.” He was granted access to my children, under the presumption that although he had admittedly sexually abused one child, he was not necessarily a danger to all children. It was easier to get him convicted of his crime than it was to keep him away from my children afterward. His conviction happened quietly. Behind closed doors. Just a few months after he was indicted on felony child sex abuse charges. But the family court battle? Years. Thousands of documents. Hours upon hours of testimony. Tens of thousands of dollars. Our lives picked apart. Privacy destroyed. Even though the Maryland State Police had identified me as being in such clear and present danger that they granted me a completely unrestricted concealed-carry gun permit. All the while, I’m court-ordered to meet the convicted abuser every Friday night for dinner so he can see “his” children.
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