My name is DeMika Ferguson

I’m a father fighting every single day just to stay in my son’s life.

Every morning I wake up thinking about him.

Some mornings I actually wake up crying and reaching for him in my sleep.

I don’t have to be at work until 8 a.m., but I wake up around 4:30 or 5 a.m. to try and get a grasp and maintain focus for the day. This is everyday, work or no.

Every night I pray I’ll get to see him again.

All day, I’m hoping and asking God — when will it happen?

My mind never shuts off — it’s my son first thing in the morning, and the last thing before I close my eyes.

At work, I'm a strong well liked employee I’m on a production line where I have to keep a steady pace, and I rock it.

But some days, as more weight has been added to my shoulders, I catch myself zoning out — lost in thought.

My mind drifts to my son, our broken communication, and everything that’s been taken from us.

It’s hard to stay focused when your heart’s somewhere else — shattered and scattered.

Since November of last year, my son hasn’t spent a single day with me — not the way the court order says we should.

The order clearly states that I’m to have parenting time from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. every other Sunday.

Me and my boy are supposed to be free to spend that time together however we want — to live, laugh, and just be father and son.

But ever since November, it’s been nothing like that.

Instead, we end up sitting at a gas station, just talking in the car or outside, and he tells me:

“I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know why… I just don’t want to.”

“Well, bud, let’s figure this out.”

“If I don’t know why I don’t want to go, then how can I tell you?”

That’s all the time we get.

We don’t go anywhere, we don’t do anything, just sit at a gas station. I still don’t have a single explanation from his mother for why this keeps happening.

The only time she messages me is about money — never about how our son is doing, never about co-parenting, never about love or support. Just bills.

To her, our son has become a paycheck and a weapon.

Love is leverage.

I used to be his hero — his world.

Now, I’m just a bank.

Loved only through condition and convenience.

I’ve documented everything: over a year’s worth of texts, messages, calendar books and silence.

I’ve stayed composed, respectful, and done everything the right way.

But the truth is — I’m drowning.

But I don’t stop. I won’t stop.

It’s eating at me like a virus.

It’s not like I’m not trying. I’m working, picking up side work, applying myself to look for new jobs or ways to move up within my company, even trying to launch a voice-acting career (you can find me on Audible as DeMika Andrew Ferguson).

I’m doing everything I can to stay positive — for me and my son.

I don’t have a solid family I can turn to that truly understands this situation — every time I’ve tried, it’s ended in betrayal or blame.

I do have some family who’ve helped however they can — offering household items, blankets, quilts, pillows, and company. I’m deeply grateful for that.

But others treat me like an outlaw, a fugitive — from and within my own family.

So here I stand, holding the line the best I can.

Why I’m Asking for Help

If you truly know me, you know this:

I don’t ask for help. I don’t want handouts. I’m proud — maybe too proud sometimes.

But this time, I have to.

I’m asking for help to strengthen my footing in this fight — for my son, and for what’s right.

Help to keep fighting for my son — because he deserves a father who doesn’t give up, even when the world tries to make him disappear or turn him into an afterthought.

“Have you considered just signing your rights over and starting over?”

More than one person has said that to me.

But a real father doesn’t quit.

If you’ve ever had to fight to be heard… if you’ve ever been lied about, pushed aside, or made to feel invisible — then you know this pain.

I’m not asking for pity.

I’m just asking for a fighting chance.

Thank you for reading, sharing, or donating — anything helps. ❤️

— DeMika Ferguson