There’s a story in the Bible about King Solomon and two women who both claimed the same baby as their own.
Both women had recently given birth. One of the babies died during the night, and now each woman stood before the king insisting that the surviving child belonged to her.
There were no witnesses.
No DNA tests.
No way to know who was telling the truth.
So Solomon called for a sword.
He ordered that the living child be divided in two, with half given to each woman.
It sounds horrifying.
But Solomon wasn’t going to kill the child.
He was waiting to see what the women would do.
One agreed to the arrangement.
The other immediately begged him to stop.
Give her the child.
Let the other woman have him.
Just don’t hurt him.
And Solomon knew.
That was his mother.
She was willing to lose her son if losing him was what it took to protect him.
I’ve been thinking about that story lately.
And I wish I hadn’t.
As an estranged father, I spend a lot of time thinking about reconciliation.
Probably too much.
I think about what I could say.
What I shouldn’t say.
Whether I should reach out.
Whether I should stay quiet.
Whether another birthday or holiday should pass without contact.
Whether giving space is respectful or whether silence eventually starts looking like indifference.
There is always a calculation running somewhere in the background.
What gives us the best chance of finding our way back to each other?
It’s part of why I called this place Held Hostage By Hope.
Hope keeps the door open.
But hope also keeps you standing near the door.
And lately I’ve found myself wondering about a much harder question.
What if loving my son eventually means being willing to lose him?
I don’t mean stop loving him.
I don’t mean declare him dead to me.
I don’t mean erase photographs, throw away memories or convince myself that he no longer matters.
I don’t think I could do those things.
And I don’t want to.
I mean something much more difficult.
What if there comes a point when fighting for the relationship does more harm than letting go of the fight?
That’s the part of Solomon’s story that gets me.
The mother doesn’t stop being his mother when she says, Give her the child.
Quite the opposite.
It’s precisely because she is his mother that she’s willing to say it.
Her love becomes more important than her possession.
She chooses his well-being over her need to have him.
That’s an extraordinarily high standard for love.
I’m not sure I’m there.
There’s something uncomfortable about the language we use around reconciliation.
I want my son back.
I’ve thought it.
I’ve probably said it.
And I understand what I mean by it.
I want the phone calls back.
I want the conversations.
I want the laughter.
I want to know what’s happening in his life.
I want birthdays and holidays that don’t have an empty space in them.
I want ordinary things.
I want to be his dad again in all the ordinary ways that being someone’s dad used to mean.
But even the phrase I want him back is worth examining.
Because he isn’t mine to have back.
He’s a grown man.
He has a life.
He has relationships.
He has his own memories of our family.
His own wounds.
His own interpretation of what happened.
His own ideas about what he needs from me—or doesn’t need from me.
I can disagree with those things.
I can be hurt by them.
I can even believe some of them are unfair.
But love doesn’t give me ownership.
Even a father’s love.
And this is where the story becomes difficult for me.
Because I can easily imagine myself standing before Solomon saying:
But he’s my son.
I have years of memories.
I was there.
I loved him before he knew what the word meant.
I taught him things.
I worried about him.
I protected him.
I made mistakes with him.
I watched him become who he is.
Surely all of that means something.
And it does.
It means everything to me.
But maybe the question isn’t whether those things give me a legitimate claim to the relationship.
Maybe the question is what I’m willing to do because I love him.
Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.
I want to be careful here.
Estrangement isn’t the story of Solomon.
There aren’t two women standing before a king.
There isn’t a villain who doesn’t care whether the child gets hurt.
And there certainly isn’t a wise judge who can hear both sides and announce who is right.
I don’t want to turn a complicated relationship into a Bible story where I conveniently cast myself as the loving parent.
That’s too easy.
What stays with me is simply the mother’s choice.
She was confronted with an unbearable possibility:
Have the relationship on terrible terms, or surrender it for the sake of the person she loved.
And when forced to choose, she chose him.
Not herself.
Maybe that’s something I need to learn about estrangement.
There is a difference between giving up on someone and giving someone up.
Giving up says:
I’m done with you.
Giving someone up can say:
I love you enough to stop pulling.
Those are profoundly different things.
One closes the door.
The other may simply stop standing in the doorway.
Maybe that’s what I’m trying to understand.
Can I stop pulling without giving up hope?
Can I accept his absence without deciding it should be permanent?
Can I love him without requiring him to experience that love in the way I want to give it?
Can I leave the door open…
and then walk away from the door?
I don’t know.
That’s the truth.
There’s a version of this essay where I reach some beautiful conclusion about unconditional love and tell you I’ve finally figured it out.
I haven’t.
Part of me still wants to fight.
Part of me wants to explain.
Part of me wants to shake the universe by the shoulders and say:
This isn’t how this story is supposed to end.
And part of me wonders whether that desperation is about him.
Or me.
Probably both.
That’s another uncomfortable thing I’m learning about love.
Even sincere love can contain selfishness.
Sometimes I want what’s best for you and I desperately want you in my life point in exactly the same direction.
Sometimes they don’t.
What matters is what we do when they don’t.
The mother in Solomon’s courtroom didn’t know how the story would end.
That’s important.
When she said Give her the child, she didn’t know Solomon would recognize her sacrifice and return her son to her.
As far as she knew, she was losing him.
There was no guarantee that her willingness to let go would be rewarded.
Maybe that’s why the story bothers me so much.
Because I want the guarantee.
I want someone to tell me:
Give him space and he’ll come back.
Stop reaching and he’ll eventually reach for you.
Respect the boundary and someday he’ll understand.
Let go and he’ll return.
But nobody can promise me that.
Maybe he comes back.
Maybe he doesn’t.
The mother had to make her decision without knowing the ending.
So do I.
Maybe that’s where love and hope finally have to separate a little.
Hope says:
Maybe he’ll come back.
Love has to be able to say:
And if he doesn’t, I still want him to be okay.
Even if his being okay happens somewhere I can’t see.
Even if I don’t get the phone call.
Even if I’m not there for the milestones.
Even if someone else hears the stories I wish he were telling me.
Even if the life I want for us isn’t the life he chooses.
That thought hurts more than I know how to explain.
But maybe love isn’t measured only by how hard we’re willing to hold on.
Sometimes maybe it’s measured by whether we’re willing to loosen our grip.
Not because the relationship doesn’t matter.
Because the person matters more.
I still hope.
I’m not ready to give that up.
I still imagine another conversation.
Another chance.
Another chapter.
I still leave the door open.
But perhaps leaving the door open doesn’t require me to stand there waiting.
Perhaps I can go live.
Perhaps I can laugh.
Travel.
Love the people who are here.
Become a better man.
Become a better father, even if for now I have to do some of that without my son watching.
And perhaps I can trust that an open door will still be open if he ever decides to walk through it.
The mother standing before Solomon was willing to lose her child rather than participate in his destruction.
I hope I’m never asked to make anything resembling that choice.
But estrangement has forced me to consider a quieter version of it.
If holding on is hurting the person I love, am I willing to let go?
I don’t know if I am yet.
But I’m beginning to understand that sometimes the most painful words a parent can say may also be the most loving.
Give him the child.
And leave the door open.
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