In 1836, the French writer George Sand swam in the River Indre fully clothed, weighed down by layers of ankle-length fabric. To any passerby, she must have seemed mad—or worse, driven by a death wish. But for her, the cool water brought relief, washing over her hot skin after hours of walking in 30°C heat. She kept moving all day because stopping meant confronting her fear: she was about to go to court to fight for her children against a husband consumed by punitive anger.
Custodire: to care, to look after, to guard, to restrain. Maternal care is often called the most natural of functions. Yet for centuries, women who defied societal expectations of motherhood have battled for their children—and often been found lacking. When the law gets involved, maternal care comes at a price. All too often, custody becomes more about restraint than care.
Today, these cases play out in blandly carpeted municipal rooms, with less fanfare than in Sand’s time. Against all odds, she won her case—only for her husband to kidnap their daughter. I thought of her during my own fight for my children in the bleak winter of the pandemic, when I learned what it means to have your capacity for love and care subjected to a legal test—one that often leaves one parent empowered by victory and the other traumatized by the vilification that so often accompanies these proceedings.
As I began my divorce, a friend warned me: “Your children will be ripped in half.” She drew a line with her hand from the top of her head down to her toes. I denied it at the time, but she was right. My children were being cut in half, just as Sand’s had been.
At the start of the pandemic, I moved to the countryside with my children for six months and decided I wanted to stay. My ex-husband allowed me to keep our two-year-old daughter but not our eight-year-old son. I began the case believing I could argue for the life my son had with me, his mother, in the countryside. Naively, I thought we could manage without lawyers, representing ourselves and treating the judge like a family friend, seeking advice together. But I quickly felt I was being judged not only as a mother but as a woman.
I left court feeling held to standards I mistakenly believed feminism had eradicated. Women weren’t meant to write books or own property; and if we aren’t emotional or repentant enough, we can’t be the kind of mothers who put our children first. Being cross-examined in the witness box remains one of the most difficult experiences of my life. For months afterward, the polished, insinuating voice of the barrister echoed in my head—in dreams, in sleepless nights—posing endless statements disguised as questions: “You act unilaterally, don’t you, over and over again?” “You don’t put your children first, do you?” “You just do what you want, whenever you want?” In despair, I answered back in my mind, crafting better responses than I had in court. But even in these private nocturnal reveries, I never had the final word.
In the weeks between hearings, I compulsively read about women in similar situations. Walking through foggy meadows to the Oxford courtroom, I felt I was walking alongside George Sand in the 1830s countryside—and alongside Caroline Norton, the witty and beautiful writer and socialite in 1830s London, whose philandering husband publicly accused her of adultery with the home secretary and then claimed their three young children. “I could hear their little feet running merrily over my head while I sat sobbing below—only the ceiling between us, and I am not able to get at them,” she wrote after failing to retrieve them from the house where he’d hidden them.
I lost my case. My son was to lMy son lives mainly with his father, and my daughter mainly with me, though they spend weekends and holidays together, alternating between our homes. I wasn’t surprised by the court’s decision, but I was taken aback that they were willing to separate siblings. What truly shocked me were the arguments successfully used to vilify me. I realized I lived in a culture where women perceived as too independent could have their children taken away.
As my daughter and I adjusted to being on our own during the grim January lockdown that followed, I continued reading about women fighting for custody—figures like Sand, Norton, Elizabeth Packard, Frieda Lawrence, Edna O’Brien, Alice Walker, and Britney Spears, along with thousands of ordinary women across centuries whose divorce and custody files I’ve studied.
I also returned to court as a journalist. Over the past year or so, I’ve grown accustomed to sitting again in the cluttered, carpeted courtrooms where my own fate was once decided. I’m familiar with the bucket seats in the corridors and the weary faces of men and women who haven’t slept for days, waiting hour after hour for their hearing. Suddenly the judge is ready, but their solicitor is still on the phone, trying to get a laptop fixed so her team can access the court documents.
Month after month in court, I’ve come to believe that children have as little agency now as they did in the 19th century, when English law treated them as their fathers’ property with no rights of their own. One of the most harmful ideas today is “parental alienation,” introduced in 1985 by American child psychiatrist Richard A. Gardner. He described it as a “disorder” caused by mothers who (perhaps unconsciously) “indoctrinate” their children against their fathers. While Gardner’s own writing is no longer widely credited, his ideas still seep in through expert reports by unregulated psychologists. In this framework, children are seen as enmeshed or unconsciously aligned with their mothers. Their wishes and feelings are considered untrustworthy, viewed as mere reflections of their all-powerful mothers.
It’s not that the mothers I’ve seen in these cases are perfect—far from it. Courts aim to be gender-neutral, and shared care is held up as the ideal, though they publish no data on how often this is actually achieved. Yet in case after case, I’ve watched an imperfect mother lose custody to an imperfect father simply because the children were in some way rejecting him. Imperfect women are made more imperfect by a court system that can seem designed to magnify their faults and escalate conflict. The predictable result is that children are handed over to fathers who become over-empowered by the process—their own faults minimized.
Watching these mothers suffer in courtrooms, I find myself respecting them all the more for the desperate sincerity with which they try to present their cases, often digging themselves deeper as they do. And I feel painfully sorry for the children who lose their mothers because they love them too much—a fault that, in this system, can only be blamed on the mother.
East London. This court is tucked into two upper floors of an anonymous office building. It exists in a world of sleek riverside bars, stately Victorian colonnades, and hustling financiers—like the one here today fighting for his daughter, whom I’ll call Lana. The father claims the mother is hostile and acts unilaterally, and that their 50/50 arrangement isn’t working. He wants his daughter most of the time and full decision-making power. The court-appointed “expert” supports him: a parenting coach and therapist who has tried to improve family dynamics while monitoring their interactions. In the court process, surveillance and nurturing are often expected to blend seamlessly.The power imbalance is stark. The father is a well-paid European businessman, comfortable navigating the legal system. The mother was an immigrant sex worker who married him—a former client—long enough to have a daughter, leaving both deeply resentful. He traveled for work with a suitcase of sex toys, while she stayed home with their baby.
His barrister is a large, cheerful woman who puts everyone at ease while calmly dismantling the mother’s case. He is also indirectly paying for his ex-wife’s less expensive lawyer, who doesn’t specialize in family law and often needs things explained to her in court.
The father has already won 50/50 custody, legal costs—despite the mother’s only income being his maintenance payments—and a change of nursery. As the hearing unfolds, it’s clear why. He speaks eloquently about his love for their daughter, Lana, and shows self-reflection by imagining her future questions about why he took her from her mother. He even plays games with the mother’s barrister, asking, “Do you want to do the answer as well as the question?”
In contrast, the mother is evasive on the stand. She claims not to remember the year she moved or when she served time for passport fraud a decade ago. Asked if there is anything good about the father, she can’t name a thing. She can’t speak to the quality of his time with Lana because she isn’t there, and she won’t promise to support the custody arrangement if he wins. “I don’t know. How can I answer that? I will be heartbroken.”
Her mistakes are laid bare. In a previous hearing, she submitted photos of him having sex to question his judgment and exposed his cross-dressing. The judge called this “an exercise in humiliation” and evidence of her intent to limit his role in Lana’s life. She also enrolled Lana in a nursery without his consent.
Yet when she says she tries to prepare Lana for handovers, only for the girl to scream as she leaves, I believe her. The father and his coach claim Lana cries because she isn’t properly prepared, but I think the mother did her best—sending Lana with her favorite book and toy so she’d feel at home with him.
“I don’t dispute that Lana has a strong emotional bond with her mother,” the father concedes. But why aren’t his books and toys enough? “I have a library at home with about 50 books.”
To me, the mother’s mistakes are those of someone uncomfortable within the system and community she’s in. The first nursery was ordinary but part of her community. Now Lana must take a crowded train with City workers to an “outstanding” nursery. The mother gives vague reasons for missing nursery events, but as a former sex worker, she may feel out of place among other parents and fear the father’s presence. Shouldn’t we acknowledge her intimidation by a man she still depends on financially—a man she says viewed strangulation as part of sex?
Yet the court has no room for these imbalances. A prior judge dismissed her claim of control, noting she was the “dominatrix” sexually. Previous rulings cannot be challenged.
A few days later, the judgment arrives.The judge noted that the father has been highly attentive to his daughter and shows no hidden resentment toward the mother, while the mother’s testimony offered little hope. Videos she recorded of Lana’s distress during handovers reveal “serious harm” that will continue in the mother’s home, where Lana is exposed to her mother’s negative views of her father. On the stand, the mother appeared lacking in warmth. As a result, the father was granted everything he requested. The mother’s parental rights have been limited, and Lana will now spend only four nights a fortnight with her mother, even during school holidays.
I imagine the mother, unable to explain to her daughter why she is losing her, because she doesn’t understand it herself.
Her offense was hating the father. I wonder what figures like George Sand or Caroline Norton would have thought if told they must not hate their husbands to keep custody. Isn’t hatred a common part of divorce? And doesn’t the legal system often fuel it?
This mother lost custody because she couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge the importance of her daughter’s love for her father. Perhaps this failure to meet the system’s demands does make her less equipped to guide her daughter through life. But to say she lacks warmth? Wasn’t it warmth I saw in her fierce protectiveness?
The night after the ruling, I woke at 5 a.m. thinking of the mother, perhaps awake, listening to her soon-to-be-lost daughter breathe in sleep. I picture a little girl on a Monday morning, taken to school by her mother, knowing it will be two weeks until their next weekend together—and the mother, unable to explain why because she herself doesn’t understand. It’s hard to assign blame, but we can be sure it isn’t Lana’s fault.
Oxford. Four years after my own court case, I climb stairs lined with cheerless children’s drawings to a coffee bar serving unappetizing sausage rolls. The case I’m observing today has lasted five years; the original disputes are settled, but the father now seeks to change the children’s residence. These children are teenagers. Let’s call them Esther and Ada, after Dickens’s story of a court case that drags on so long the inheritance is spent on lawyers and justice is forgotten.
There’s a court-appointed expert involved, of course. Trish Barry-Relph is best known for a 2022 case where two sisters, aged 13 and 11, accused their father of sexual and physical abuse. The older girl called her psychologist from her father’s bedroom, threatening suicide if she couldn’t return to her mother. Barry-Relph diagnosed “severe alienation,” concluding the mother had turned the girls against their father. The children—along with their therapeutic guardian, Barry-Relph herself—moved to the father’s house for 90 days without seeing their mother. The girls vandalized the house and broke a window to escape. Fortunately, the case reached the High Court in 2023. Mrs. Justice Lieven found evidence of alienation but considered the allegation unhelpful, “embedding conflict and a sense that one parent is right and justified, and the other parent is wrong.” She criticized Barry-Relph and others for treatment that “bordered on the inhumane.” The older girl was returned to her mother, while the younger remained in limbo.
I was curious to see Barry-Relph, and she didn’t disappoint. She looks grandmotherly in a black cardigan and seems brisk and kind, but her recommendations are far from gentle. Barry-Relph now avoids the term “alienation,” saying instead that Esther and Ada are “unwittingly serving their mother’s unconscious needs.” For years, the girls have repeated the same…The allegations against the father include claims of abuse from Esther, the older daughter. However, these incidents—such as him throwing a ball at her face while playing in the pool or demonstrating a “slap” by clapping his hands near her face—were found to be accidents. Both girls cite these events to explain their discomfort, which may also be influenced by their awareness of the hostility between their parents.
For some time, Barry-Relph recommended that Esther be placed in foster care to rebuild her relationship with her father, believing it was impossible while she was exposed to her mother’s hostility toward him. Now, she suggests a six-month transfer to the father’s care. Since he lives far from their schools, the girls would board full-time and visit him on weekends and holidays. Esther has stated she does not want to see him, while Ada has been content spending weekends and holidays with him and wishes to continue. Both girls have said they do not want to board full-time. When questioned, Barry-Relph is firm: if her solution is not adopted, Esther will struggle in her relationships with her sister, future peers and partners, and even her own children and grandchildren. The social worker “guardian” appointed to represent the children’s interests shares this view.
The questioning of the parents begins in a packed courtroom. Esther, old enough to hire her own barrister, is not present, while Ada is represented by the barrister appointed for the guardian. The mother has a KC, and the father, despite his wealth, has decided to represent himself after previously having one. This is usually a disadvantage, but it allows him to question the mother directly. He asks her about an incident where the police were called after the girls phoned her, sounding frightened.
“Do you accept responsibility for calling the police?” the father asks.
She tells the court it was her new husband who called the police.
“Do you accept responsibility for coming down to my house?”
Growing frustrated at having to answer to him, she replies, “I want to ask him to take responsibility for calling my husband a fucking bastard,” addressing the judge. The judge intervenes, insisting she answer the original question.
“Other judges have been critical,” the judge continues, referring to the fact-finding hearing where the mother was held responsible for the conflict. “When a judge says these things, it’s an opportunity for self-reflection.”
She follows the script, saying she regrets calling the police.
When the guardian’s barrister begins her questioning, it becomes clear why the father felt confident representing himself. This barrister is entirely on his side, effectively providing him with free legal representation—all the more powerful because she is supposed to represent the children. She repeatedly asks the mother if she accepts the fact-finding judgment and if she accepts that the children are happy with their father.
“I believe the children, is all I’m saying,” the mother says, a statement that proves damaging. The fact-finding judgment had criticized her for taking the children’s words at face value, such as viewing the slap and ball incidents as abuse. The barrister quickly points out that she is doing the same thing now.
The trap tightens as the days pass and the mother returns to court in a black velvet jacket that seems to defy the courtroom’s muted neutrality. Does she see herself as a victim? the barrister asks.
No, the mother insists. But she hesitantly suggests that something feels off—perhaps a little chauvinistic? “Not one person can say something nice about me.”
She is right. Here is a mother whom no one criticizes as a parent, except for her failure to co-parent with the equally uncooperative father. Yet no one asks about her parenting. Its exemplary nature is simply assumed, so neither Barry-Relph nor the guardian has felt the need to see the mother.The father gets to show that he’s a fun and thoughtful parent. He buys VIP concert tickets for his children (though only Ada attended). He engages seriously and thoughtfully in therapy with Barry-Relph. What the mother does for fun is irrelevant here—only her mistakes matter. And while it’s true she has doubted his parenting in the past and doesn’t fully trust him now, why should that mean her daughters are better off without her?
Esther’s lawyer questions the father about a key moment last spring, when Esther was trying to rebuild their relationship. The girls were due to spend half-term with him, and a few days before, he and Esther discussed how often she would call her mother. Esther initially wanted to call three times a day; he wanted twice a week. He worried his ex-wife would become a constant presence in their time together. Esther quickly offered to compromise at twice a day, but he was still uneasy, so she promised to consider twice a week.
The next day, the father panicked, afraid Esther would involve her mother in any everyday disagreements they had. Without consulting Esther, he booked a flight to send her to her mother abroad instead, putting her on a plane alone.
Listening to this, it’s no surprise they ended up where they are. The suggestion of foster care, paired with this painful show of control—this father may not be abusive, but there is cruelty here, even if it’s cruelty provoked and shaped by the court process and the questionable therapy it encouraged. It’s no wonder Esther turned to anger; it was easier to claim he threw a ball at her face on purpose than to admit she was a vulnerable girl who couldn’t trust his love.
The final arguments arrive. According the guardian’s lawyer, the charge is that the children “have lost a meaningful grasp of reality”—and it’s the mother’s fault. The ruling is no surprise: “The mother has not controlled the animosity she feels toward the father.” For six months, the girls will board at school and spend weekends and holidays with their father. They’ll have brief, supervised monthly contact with their mother, after which she’ll be evaluated again to see if she’s sorry enough and can free her daughters from their “false narrative.”
Around us, campaigns for change are growing, especially for parents who can prove domestic abuse. In 2020, the government’s Harm Panel report criticized how alienation claims are used to counter allegations of abuse and found that “too often the voices of children go unheard or are muted.” The government has appointed its first domestic abuse commissioner, who recommends barring parental alienation claims in cases involving abuse. Recently, the government also announced plans to repeal the clause in the Children Act 1989 that assumes contact with both parents is in a child’s best interests unless proven otherwise. This is a positive step, though it likely wouldn’t have changed the cases I’ve described, where the fathers aren’t a safety threat.
The most promising development is the Pathfinder courts initiative, launched as a pilot in Dorset and north Wales in 2022 and since expanded. These “problem-solving” courts aim to interview children and involved professionals early, then support families in out-of-court dispute resolution, reducing the win-lose dynamic of litigation.
I recently visited the Bournemouth Pathfinder court. It felt very different fromIn other courts I’ve experienced, expert reports are rarely commissioned, hearings can be scheduled with just a few days’ notice, and far fewer orders are made to change a child’s primary residence. I believe that if Lana’s or Esther and Ada’s cases had been heard in Bournemouth, the judges would have actively worked to improve the daughters’ time with their fathers, rather than feeling forced to order a drastic change of home.
It’s no wonder the greatest stories about custody are tragedies. Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, while famous as a novel about adultery, is at its core the story of Anna’s son Seryozha, who helplessly misses the mother who cannot win him in court and must grow up in a world without her. As the father’s lawyer says in Noah Baumbach’s brilliant film Marriage Story, “Getting divorced with a kid is one of the hardest things to do. It’s like a death without a body.” But in fact, there is a body, as Tolstoy understood: it is the child’s body, forever carrying the poison of the courtroom within it, even if it hasn’t been visibly torn in two.
Yet, precisely because custody situations are so inherently tragic, we must do everything possible to avoid escalating conflict through the court system—which splits parents into traumatized losers and over-empowered winners—and we must do all we can to give children a genuine voice. In my own case, things have improved with each year that passes since our time in court. My ex-husband’s habit of quoting the judge’s criticisms of my character during our minor disagreements has gradually faded, and we are now generally able to put the children first in most of our interactions. I’ve learned again to admire this man, who may sometimes hate me—and not without reason—but whose love for our children makes him an impressively cooperative father. “I love you both!” our daughter shouted joyfully at a recent handover, moving from one of us to the other for hugs. It may be the most important thing a child of divorce can say.
This is an adapted extract from Custody: The Secret History of Mothers by Lara Feigel, published by William Collins on 29 January at £25. To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com.
Trish Barry-Relph was approached for comment on this article. She stated: “I always act in my professional capacity to assist the court, and the children’s welfare is my paramount concern. Every case depends on its own facts. It is not for an independent social worker to ‘diagnose’ alienation, as this is a question of fact for the court.”
Frequently Asked Questions
FAQs About Custody Battles and Protecting Children During Divorce
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 What exactly is a custody battle
A custody battle is a legal dispute between separating parents over who their children will live with how decisions about them will be made and how parenting time will be divided It often involves court hearings evaluations and can become highly adversarial
2 Why are custody battles so emotionally brutal
They are brutal because they involve the people you love mostyour children Parents may fear losing time with their kids leading to high stress accusations and using children as leverage The legal process can feel invasive and slow dragging out the pain
3 Whats the difference between legal custody and physical custody
Legal Custody The right to make major decisions about your childs life
Physical Custody Where the child primarily lives and the daytoday parenting schedule Parents can share either or both types
4 How can I protect my kids from the worst of it
Prioritize their wellbeing above all else Never speak negatively about the other parent to or in front of the children Keep them out of adult conflicts and legal details Reassure them they are loved by both parents and that the divorce is not their fault
Advanced Practical Questions
5 What are some common tactics that make a custody battle turn brutal
Tactics can include making false allegations of abuse withholding visitation refusing to cooperate on schedules excessive litigation to drain the other parent financially and manipulating the children to choose sides
6 Is shared custody always the best outcome
Not always While courts often favor shared parenting when possible the best arrangement is what serves the childs specific needs stability and safety If there is a history of abuse addiction or high conflict other arrangements may be better
7 What is a guardian ad litem or a custody evaluator
These are courtappointed neutral professionals who investigate the family situation They interview parents children and others then make recommendations to the judge about custody arrangements in the childs best interest
8 How can I prepare for a custody evaluation to present my best case
Be cooperative punctual and
