Raising Wildfire — By Tawnia Lives
Just a year later, in May of 2009—shortly after I returned from California, from a trip I may someday be able to tell in full—I filed an affidavit of disclosure in Superior Court.
On paper, it reads like the words of an emotional woman.
Someone reaching for understanding, safety, security, love, compassion.
Someone trying to name instability without sounding unstable.
Someone translating survival into language the court would accept without suspicion.
What the document did not say was how much it cost to make it sound that calm.
The Words That Made It In
The affidavit stated that the children were being raised in a healthy, loving environment.
It described me as a full-time caregiver to three children—
one with complex developmental needs—
managing medical care, school coordination, therapies, transportation, and every detail of daily life.
Every line was true.
But none of it told the story.
What the Court Never Saw
It never saw the weight of those days:
the endless appointments,
the physical and occupational therapy several times a week,
the miles driven, the gas stretched thin,
the paperwork, the lifting, the carrying,
the quiet calculations of:
“How much longer can my body do this?”
The court did not see three children whose needs were stacked on top of each other
while I was still learning how to breathe between tasks.
It did not see that I did all of it alone—
without physical help,
without emotional steadiness from another adult,
without rest,
without relief.
And it did not see the violence—
because the violence did not always look like violence.
The Calls, the Control, the Conditions
I was called every day.
Ten times.
Sometimes fifteen.
If I didn’t answer, my son was asked to report who I had last spoken to.
My phone was accessible because the account was not mine alone.
My contacts were viewed.
People in my life were called—
spoken to about me—
often without my knowledge.
Money did not arrive consistently.
It arrived conditionally.
It came when I behaved.
When I did not question.
When I centered him.
When I offered reassurance, admiration, comfort—
when I performed the emotional labor required to keep him feeling powerful and in control.
Only then did child support and spousal maintenance appear—
just enough to keep the lights on.
Even safety was negotiable.
Cars changed depending on my compliance.
One week I had something reliable.
The next week, I didn’t.
I remember sitting in a cold truck, lifting my son—
who could not walk—
into his seat by myself,
then lifting him back out again.
There was no one else.
What the System Saw — and What It Didn’t
Support was scarce.
The physical labor was relentless.
The exhaustion was constant.
The system did not see it.
What it saw was a woman asking carefully.
Measuring every word.
Trying not to appear emotional
even while describing a life unraveling at the seams.
What the system did not see
was how much had already been taken
before I ever arrived in its hallways.
— Tawnia Lives.