A Mother’s Journey

Ricky was just three years old when I divorced his narcissistic, cheating, alcoholic father. His parting words were a vow that I’d never see a penny from him—and he kept that promise.

After the divorce in July 1972, I moved in with my brother Nigg and his wife, Inge, in Radelstetten—a tiny farming village near Schwäbisch Gmünd. My mother, who had recently returned to Germany after seven years in Turkey, also came to live with us.

I believed the peaceful countryside would help me heal. The lush green fields, the slower rhythm of life—it all felt like a balm for both Ricky and me. Having spent his early years in Nuremberg, Ricky was fascinated by the farm animals and quickly found a new playmate, Heidi.

But the divorce had taken its toll. Ricky started wetting the bed and waking up in the night, soaked in sweat, tortured by nightmares. I felt helpless—lost in doubt and guilt, unsure of how to help him or what lay ahead for us.

My mother urged me to be strict, even advising me to spank him when he wet the bed. I refused. Ricky was my child, and I believed love—not punishment—would heal him. I gave him everything I could: my time, my affection, my presence. But I also needed to contribute to the household, so I took a job at a restaurant just a few houses away. My shift started at 5 p.m., leaving my days free to be with Ricky.

Gradually, he began to recover. And slowly, so did I.

About a month later, I started dating Hansjörg, a neighbor who invited me out dancing. His attention rekindled my self-confidence. I also grew close to his younger sister, Maus, despite the eight-year age difference. We laughed easily and confided in one another—especially about my traumatic pregnancy.

I experienced relentless nausea and vomiting for eight straight months—often multiple times a day. Even the faintest scent of cigarette smoke would trigger violent episodes of emesis. Despite these classic symptoms, my doctor repeatedly insisted I wasn’t pregnant. Then, in my fourth month, I suffered a miscarriage. During the subsequent dilation and curettage (D&C), the physician unexpectedly discovered a second viable fetus. I was immediately hospitalized, placed on strict bed rest, and subjected to complete activity restriction for three weeks to prevent another miscarriage. Intravenous fluids and medications were administered continuously to stabilize my condition. However, additional symptoms—such as muscle weakness and difficulty walking—were either dismissed or attributed to stress, with no further investigation or support offered.
My husband offered no support—he even told me he was embarrassed to be seen with me because, since the pregnancy, I looked “too fat.”

Labor began late on Saturday, and after thirty-six agonizing hours, my water finally broke on Tuesday, June 17th, at 5:30 a.m. Ricky was born later that day at 2:32 p.m.

Maus was the first person I ever told the whole story to. Those conversations were the foundation of a friendship that has lasted a lifetime.

Life in Radelstetten began to feel balanced. Ricky stopped wetting the bed, made friends, and emerged from his shell. I had a job, a boyfriend, and a trusted friend. I was beginning to feel happy again.

But tensions began to rise between my brother and our mother. Then, one Sunday morning, after a night of dancing with Hansjörg, Maus came to tell me her mother wanted to speak with me. We jokingly called her “the First Sergeant of Radelstetten” because of her no-nonsense demeanor—but this time, she wasn’t joking.

“We are a respectable family, and Hansjörg will one day inherit the ranch,” she began. “For that reason—and I know you’ll understand—he cannot continue seeing you. He needs a wife who understands farming, comes from a good family, and is not divorced or burdened with a child.”

Then she delivered the blow I would never forget:
“If you’re capable of doing one good thing in your life, you’ll tell Hansjörg it’s over. If not, it will be your fault if he loses everything. Could you live with that?”

I left without saying a word. Four months later, Ricky and I moved to Stuttgart. Once again, it was just the two of us—and our bond only grew stronger.

I found work as an interior decorator and enrolled Ricky in preschool. Our weekends became sacred: long, lazy mornings in bed, breakfast on trays, card games, zoo visits, and day trips to nearby cities.

Ricky respected his teachers but had a fiercely independent streak. In second grade, when a teacher tried for the third time to explain something to another student, Ricky calmly packed up his books, handed her a note with our phone number, and said, “Call me when you’re done.”

Later, that teacher told me Ricky struggled with reading, but showed exceptional mathematical ability. She also suspected he might be on the autism spectrum—possibly Asperger’s.

Seven years later, we moved back to Nuremberg—this time with a dog, a cat, and a guinea pig. Ricky still loved sleeping in on Sundays, now with his pets curled up beside him. He did well in school but avoided homework at all costs. He could spend hours playing computer games. By the age of twelve, he was already fashion-conscious and insisted on good haircuts and stylish clothes.

At fifteen, standing six feet tall, his interests turned to discos and girls. He enrolled in a trade college to become a beautician—his way of exploring his identity and path forward.

By the time I decided to leave Germany, Ricky was 22. On a January morning, he and his girlfriend came over for breakfast. I had rehearsed how I would break the news to him—ready to scrap it entirely if he asked me to stay.

“Ricky,” I began, “What would you say if I moved abroad for a couple of years?”

He didn’t skip a beat. “It’s about time you do what you want. Phones and planes exist.” Then, turning to his girlfriend with a grin, he added, “My mom will call me from the ends of the earth to make sure I’m wearing clean socks with no holes.”

That was the last normal moment we shared.

On July 22, 1996, I received a letter from his girlfriend. Ricky had been in a car accident. She hadn’t been able to find my phone number.

I called her, then the hospital. Ricky had already undergone three brain surgeries, with a fourth scheduled. The left side of his face had to be reconstructed. Doctors weren’t sure he would keep his eye.

I flew to Germany the next day.

When he finally regained consciousness, he didn’t recognize his girlfriend—or me. He didn’t even know his own name. The brain damage was extensive. The doctors said he would never walk again or live independently.

I returned to the U.S. and began legal proceedings to bring him over. But because I no longer lived in Germany, and his father refused any involvement, the court appointed a legal guardian. I’ve done everything in my power, but bureaucracy continues to stand in the way.

In 1997, the hospital discharged him as 100% mentally disabled. In 1999, his guardian told me he would update me when the family court reached a decision. That update never came.

Ricky has improved slightly. We speak by phone every Sunday. But each call feels like the first—he never remembers our previous conversations. He receives no therapy for his memory loss. Doctors have dismissed the idea of removing the hematoma from his brain.

One tragic moment changed everything. At 32, Ricky has been left with little to look forward to. But I will never give up. I will keep fighting until he is with me here in America—where he belongs.

He deserves that.
He is my son.
He is my only child.
And I love him.

Unfortunately, the German court system decided otherwise, appointing a legal guardian who has consistently excluded me from decisions and withheld critical information about my son’s care.