An Unexpected and Life-Changing Gift From a Police Officer

The kindness of strangers is such a beautiful thing

Throughout the course of my life, I’ve been blessed to receive numerous gifts of all kinds. Gifts that I can unwrap, gifts of time, gifts of shared experiences, and so many more.

And then there are those “gifts that keep on giving,” sometimes in an unexpected way, such as when I was a child and received three large, hard-covered books from the “Oz” series by L. Frank Baum. He didn’t stop with the Wizard of Oz; he went on to write several more.

I had “The Land of Oz,” “The Tin Woodman of Oz” and “Rinkitink in Oz.” Loaded with humour, adventure, and imagination beyond my wildest dreams, I re-read those books so often, I’m surprised I didn’t wear the print off the pages.

I went on to read them to my children as a regular “after-dinner” event. There was a 10-year range in ages amongst the four of my children who were still living at home at that time, and as these stories are entertaining and endearing whether you’re 3 or 103 they were perfect for some enjoyable family time.

We would gather round the 150-year-old harvest table in the kitchen with steaming mugs of cocoa and a plate of homemade cookies. I would read a chapter, or perhaps two, my heart overflowing as Jack Pumpkinhead, King Rinkitink, Mr. H.M. Wogglebug, T.E. and all the others came to life once again.

I adored hearing the giggles and belly laughs that erupted round the table, or seeing the solemn, wide-eyed faces that waited anxiously for “What will happen next?” when Things Got Scary.

I was given these books when I was about 5 years old, as I was reading when I was 4. I had a few other books, but none that carried me away like these ones did. Growing up in a frightening, angry home, I relished the precious moments when I could hide in my room with the door closed and be transported to Oz with my unusual little friends. How wonderful that my children could also be gifted the sheer joy and delight that those stories had given me for many years!

There have been other gifts that remain forever in my heart, but they weren’t always associated with such happy times as those Oz nights at that kitchen table. Not by a long shot.

There is one gift in particular that more than three decades later, still brings me to tears. It was several years before those cherished evenings. My world had been blown to smithereens, and I stood bewildered amidst the pile of rubble that remained.

A few months earlier, my marriage had exploded one night when my husband lost his temper once too often, this time resulting in the injury of one of my children and frightening the others who had witnessed it.

It wasn’t the first time. But it was the first one for which I had evidence.

I ended up in the office of a psychologist, “Norm,” who asked probing questions about my entire life and relationships up to that point. We spoke about my previous marriage — an unwanted disaster that left me a divorced, teenaged mother years earlier.

Norm took me back to childhood and gradually, long-forgotten memories began to surface. They peered up at me from the dusty depths of my subconscious and I found myself playing “whack-a-mole” as I slammed each one back down, only to have another pop up and taunt me from a different corner of my mind.

Waiting until he thought I could handle it, Norm asked a question that would colour everything about how I viewed myself, my family, and my entire history forever after.

Ever so gently and ever so quietly, his words tiptoed out of his mouth and hung in the air between us. “You know you’ve been abused your whole life, don’t you?”

Wait a minute. What? I’ve been what? No. No, I don’t know that. And I don’t want to know that.

Because now what the bloody hell am I going to do with it?

That “A-word” changed everything. I felt as though my life had been blown apart, leaving millions of puzzle pieces lying on the floor. Somehow, I would have to figure out how to put them back together again. But there was no box lid with a picture of what that might look like. I had no clue about where or how to begin.

My marriage ended, contorting itself into an acrimonious misery. I feared my estranged husband’s temper. Every interaction involving the child that we shared became an ordeal.

As the weeks passed and Norm and I continued our archaeological dig into the deepest recesses of my mind, we unearthed ugly truths that I could no longer ignore. My father’s terrifying, alcoholic rages. My sociopath brother’s violence.

And the worst memories that had remained long-buried … the ones that even now, decades later, turn my stomach and make me cringe as I recall my mother’s humiliating violations that were sexually abusive.

I was beyond fragile. I’d have sworn that if anyone so much as looked at me, I would shatter into razor-thin shards of shame.

I had to figure out a way to support myself and my children. As a divorced single mother prior to this marriage, previously I had managed first on meagre earnings as a junior legal secretary and later doing unpredictable work typing Court transcripts. Having added another child to my family with this marriage, I needed something more stable.

Although I had dropped out of high school, I was able to pursue a post-secondary education as an adult. As terrifying as it was to contemplate such a bold move as a single parent who was nothing short of an emotional basket case, I secured a position for the autumn semester and qualified for just enough in student loans that I prayed might make ends meet.

Week after week, I worked with Norm to understand the concept of abusive and dysfunctional relationships, issues of boundaries, appropriate communication, and much more. The more I took even tiny, hesitant steps toward unravelling and changing the unhealthy dynamics between my parents and me, the more they stepped up their efforts to keep me small and under their emotional control. Just as Norm had predicted.

I felt smaller and more fragile than ever.

I remember walking through the halls between classes, panicking when I saw anyone coming from the opposite direction. With my heart pounding a million miles an hour, I’d stare down at the pile of textbooks and binders in my arms. I stared at the wall, the window, the floor — anything rather than look directly at passing strangers.

Aside from all the other reasons for that response, by far the worst were the vivid memories of the violations by my mother. They flashed through my mind many times every day. And my body remembered. Remembered and recoiled at the vile thoughts of what she had done.

Too terrified to go into any of the cafeterias or lounge areas where there would be strangers, I hoofed it way across the parking lot and sat in my car on lunch breaks or between classes. It didn’t matter if it was -35° with howling winds and blowing snow; I could not bring myself to walk into a space where there were all those people.

Surely they can see my shame. Surely they can see my humiliation, how utterly damaged and defective I am. How dirty and disgusting I feel. How completely unworthy I am to draw breath.

Oh, how I wished I could disappear off the face of the planet! If only I could have simply dissolved into the earth, except it would have been a terrible violation against Mother Nature to subject her to that.

Throughout this period — and for years prior to it — there was another deeply disturbing situation that had burrowed its way into my life. At the time all of this was happening, my eldest child (we’ll call her “Meg”) was 12 years old. I had divorced her father when she was 10 months old and he had moved to another part of Canada shortly afterward. He had only rare contact with her.

Since she was a toddler, she had been — well, let’s call it “troubled”. She was exceptionally gifted intellectually, and had become quite an accomplished liar by the time she was only 4 years old. When she was 5, her kindergarten teacher said, “She’s bored with games and toys. She likes to play with people. She pushes buttons and then sits back and watches the fireworks.”

Indeed, she did.

Over the years, the problems escalated. By the time she was 6, I was calling the police to scare her into not stealing. When she was 8, I was afraid to go to sleep with her in the house. At 12, she was threatening to burn down the house while the rest of us slept.

I had begun seeking help when she was 3, over the ensuing years spending many hundreds of hours in the offices of child psychiatrists, psychologists, pediatricians, school counsellors, and social workers. Even our minister and some close family friends attempted to assist. But you can’t help someone who doesn’t want it. And Meg most definitely did not have any intention of becoming a well-behaved child who would mind the rules.

There were frequent calls from the school, police, social workers, or my lawyer ringing about one divorce misery after another. Between painful appointments with Norm and the battles with my parents as I worked to disentangle myself from the caustic ropes of their abuse, I was well past running on fumes as Meg’s self-destructive behaviour went into overdrive.

And my younger children couldn’t help but feel the effects of the unbearable stress and arguments that consumed almost every waking moment in our little home.

Adding to my already full plate, Meg would occasionally steal $10 or $20 out of my wallet. It was worth a lot more back then than it is now and I could ill afford such losses. My food allowance was already frighteningly dismal; I couldn’t take these financial hits over and over again.

At one point, in desperation and hoping it would stop her, I promised her that the next time any money was missing, I would call the police. Not surprisingly, she tested me to see if I had meant what I said. And I did. She had left me no choice. If I didn’t follow through, my word would mean nothing. It was a precedent I refused to set.

Two officers came and spent quite a bit of time with us. They were so kind to me. They listened patiently while I filled them in on years of problems with Meg. She was flippant and mouthy with them until they made it clear they weren’t impressed. They tore a strip off her for being an awful daughter. They spoke about how hard I was working to try to make a better life for her and her siblings, and about how selfish and ungrateful she was. They scared the pants off her, too, about what would happen to her if she continued down the road she was on.

It worked for about six minutes and she was back to her old tricks.

Most nights, all I could offer my children for dinner was a bowl of thin soup with a few bits of carrots, onion or celery, or maybe some rice to make it go farther. The weeks passed. They grew into a few months. And still, there were far too many nights I was ladling a pathetic bit of soup into bowls for my children.

Thankfully, my 2-year-old son was fed nutritious breakfasts, lunches and snacks at day care. He was a bright, sunny, patient child who never complained about anything.

One horrible day, I buckled him into his car seat and as I pulled away from the day care, I mentioned getting home to make dinner. I will never forget that moment. His sad, sweet voice plunged a knife into my soul with five terrible words that will haunt me till I die.

“Please, Mama, no more soup!”

Decades later, tears still sting my eyes as I recall the shame of my inadequacy as a mother. Of not being able to provide for my children. Of making my sweet son dread yet another bowl of watery soup that even I had been detesting for some time. I understood the reason for it; he did not.

Around that time, it was the end of my first semester at school. I was driving home after my last exam before the Christmas break. I’d stopped on a busy road to let a woman cross the street. A vehicle plowed into the back of my car, totalling my old tank and causing me a massive brain injury from a severe whiplash. I was in rough shape but did my best to care for my family, in spite of feeling like I’d been mowed down by a truck.

I figured that if it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have had any luck at all.

One night shortly after my accident, there was a knock at the door. There stood the two ladies from the management office at the townhouse complex where I lived. One of them, Annie, held out an open box.

“We heard that you might be able to use a Christmas hamper,” she smiled.

More than a little surprised, I thanked her as I took the box. Inside was a large chicken, a box of stuffing, and a few other food items, enough to make a lovely Christmas meal. I had no idea how they knew about my troubles, but my heart overflowed with gratitude for this beautiful and unexpected gift.

A few days later, the phone rang. It was a woman from the Food Bank. “We got a referral from a police officer who said you might be able to use a Christmas hamper. There’s one here for you, if you’d like it?”

I was shocked. How incredibly kind of that police officer! Such a beautiful gift that he was thinking of me and wanted to do something to help me! And how lovely that there even was a food bank that could offer such a beautiful gift! This would have been down to the kindness of numerous strangers who donated their food, time or money to make it possible.

I thanked her profusely for the kind offer but told her to give the hamper to someone else, as I’d already received one with all the “fixins” for a Christmas dinner.

She insisted that I could have theirs, too, and urged me to accept it. I didn’t feel right about taking it as I’d already been given one, but when she mentioned it being good for my children, I agreed. Along with the other hamper, I could give my children two healthful meals and perhaps there would even be leftovers for one or two more.

I went along in my totalled-but-temporarily-driveable car to the address she had given me. As I was recovering from my injuries and in a neck brace, when I arrived they said they would bring the hamper to my car.

Some “hamper!” They loaded me up with enough food to last for weeks! There was another large chicken, some fresh vegetables, and numerous boxes and tins of all sorts of foods. Pasta, rice, sauces, vegetables, fruits, crackers, beans, hearty soups and stews … There were even a few treats and snacks, plus a small wrapped gift for each of the children.

After the Food Bank volunteers went back inside, I gripped the steering wheel and rested my forehead on it. I wept. And wept. And wept.

I wept tears of relief. Tears of gratitude. Tears that washed away a bit of my shame for being an inadequate mother. For a while, I could put that away. For a while, I wouldn’t have to worry about whether my children were hungry.

And thanks to the beautiful gifts of that kind police officer, and numerous strangers who had made this extraordinary gift to my family possible, for a while, I could tell my sweet son five precious words. “No, darling. No more soup.”

Please enjoy J Oliver Dempsey’s incredible story of finding — and creating — treasure in unexpected places:

And you won’t want to miss Ben Ulansey’s deeply moving story about his beloved dog’s last walk:

Thanks to Ben Ulansey and Thought Thinkers for publishing this piece.

©Liberty Forrest 2023