A Dad Who Represented Himself in Family Court for the First Time

I never thought I'd be the kind of person who'd represent himself in court. I'm a roofer. I left school at sixteen with two GCSEs. Reading isn't my strong suit. Legal documents may as well be in another language as far as I'm concerned. So when I tell you I stood up in front of a magistrate and argued my own case for seeing my daughter, you'll understand why my hands wouldn't stop shaking for about three days afterwards.

It started, like a lot of these things do, with a slow drift rather than a row. Karen and I had been together nine years, married for six, and somewhere around the time our daughter Maisie turned four, the wheels came off. There wasn't a big dramatic moment. Just a quiet evening on the sofa where she said she didn't love me anymore, and I sat there nodding like she'd told me the bin needed putting out.

I moved out three weeks later, into my brother's box room. Karen and I agreed I'd see Maisie every weekend and one night in the week. For about four months, that's what happened. I'd pick her up on Friday after school, she'd stay till Sunday teatime, and on Wednesdays I'd take her to the swimming pool because she was learning the front crawl and she liked showing me. We weren't friends, Karen and me, but we were civil.

Then she met someone. I'm not bitter about that, or I try not to be. But this bloke, Greg, didn't like me. From the day he moved in, things started getting harder. Suddenly Wednesday swimming wasn't convenient. Then weekends got cut short. Then Maisie started telling me, in that careful little voice five-year-olds use when they know they shouldn't be saying something, that Greg said her real daddy didn't love her anymore.

That one nearly finished me.

I tried texts, phone calls, even turning up at the house once, which I regret, because it gave her something to use against me later. By the time spring came round, I hadn't seen Maisie in seven weeks. I was sleeping about four hours a night. My brother sat me down one evening and said, mate, you need to do something proper, this is killing you.

I went to a solicitor. She was kind enough, but when she told me her hourly rate, I genuinely thought I might be sick on her carpet. I'm a roofer with a van on finance and £3,200 in savings. She did mention some firms now offer affordable legal support, where you pay for specific bits of help rather than the whole job, and she suggested family mediation as well, and gave me a leaflet.

The woman I spoke to at the mediation service was, honestly, the first person in months who didn't make me feel small. She explained how it worked. There'd be a meeting first, just me. Then if Karen agreed, we'd sit in a room together with a mediator, and we'd try to sort out arrangements for Maisie ourselves, without lawyers, without court. She was clear that if Karen wouldn't come, I'd get a signed form that meant I could go to court anyway.

Karen wouldn't come. The mediator told me, gently, that she'd declined. I was given the form, which I now know is called a C100 referral.

That's when I made the decision that turned out to be the hardest, and probably the best, of my life. I decided I'd represent myself. I couldn't afford a barrister, and the legal aid people had told me I earned about forty quid a week too much to qualify.

My sister-in-law, who'd been through something similar a few years before, sat me down with a cup of tea and her laptop. She'd found a guide online about representing yourself in family court and another about how to prepare your paperwork for family court hearing day. Both of them, plain English, no waffle. She also pointed me towards the Divorce Circle Group on Facebook, where other parents going through it share what worked for them. I'd lurk in there at half ten at night reading other dad’s stories until I felt less alone.

The mediator had said something to me on the phone that I clung to. She said, you don't have to be a lawyer to be a dad. The court isn't there to catch you out. They want what's best for your daughter. Just tell them what you know.

I wrote down every single thing that had happened, with dates, in a Tesco notebook I'd bought for £1.20. The night before the hearing I dreamt I'd turned up in court with no trousers on.

The morning was a blur. The smell of polish in the corridor. The way Karen wouldn't look at me. The CAFCASS officer had already spoken to Maisie, who'd said she missed her dad's flat and the fish fingers he made.

When I stood up to speak, my voice came out higher than usual, like a teenager's. I apologised for not having a solicitor. The magistrate smiled and said, take your time, tell me about your daughter. So I did. I told her about the swimming, and the way Maisie liked her toast cut into triangles, and the song from school I couldn't get out of my head. I told her about the seven weeks. I didn't cry, which surprised me.

The magistrates went out for forty minutes. When they came back, they ordered alternate weekends, one weeknight, and half of the school holidays. They also said, on the record, that they'd found me to be a credible and committed father.

Maisie's seven now. We still do swimming on Wednesdays, although it's diving lessons these days, and she's fearless. Karen and I are okay.

If you're a dad reading this, and you're scared, please don't give up before you've started. Mediation is worth trying first, even if you think the other person won't come. And if it has to go further, the court isn't the dragon you think it is. They're just people, trying to work out what's right for a child they've never met.

I stood up that day for Maisie. Turns out I stood up for myself a bit as well.

This story is based on real experiences, with details changed to protect confidentiality.