I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it.

For years, I’ve shown up. Not just financially, but emotionally, mentally, and physically. I’ve never missed a payment. I’ve never missed time. I’ve never gone missing from their lives. I’ve been there, through school drop-offs, bedtime calls, holidays, sports, birthdays—you name it. I didn’t just sign a check and disappear. I stayed present. I stayed involved. I stayed dad.

And yet, here I am. Still being asked for more.

Not because the kids are in need. Not because there’s a lack of provision. But because I’ve grown. Because I’ve worked hard and built a business and carved out a better life—not just for myself, but for all of my daughters. And somehow, that growth has been interpreted not as a win for everyone, but as a reason to demand more.

Let me back up.

Mellisa and I were once in love. We built a life together. We created two incredible daughters—Presley and Reese. And when our relationship ended, I stayed committed to fatherhood, no matter how strained the dynamic between us became. I continued to support my kids in every way I could. I paid the ordered support. I went beyond it—covering extra clothes, medical bills, trips, braces, activities, anything they needed. I never once withheld what was theirs. I’ve done it all without complaint, without court battles, without falling behind.

But over the years, something shifted.

The support I offered—direct, intentional, and sometimes even spontaneous—started being filtered. Suddenly, my role as a father wasn’t just co-parent; it was financier. And that’s a tough pill to swallow when you’re doing everything in your power to give your kids more than just money. I wanted to give them me.

I’ve been told I should be grateful. That the system “works.” But how can you call something support when it actively gets in the way of your ability to support?

I’ve watched as the system has placed Mellisa in the role of gatekeeper—empowered to define what counts as valid support and what doesn’t. That gatekeeping came with the belief that her household and her perspective on parenting should be the default, and that anything I offered beyond a check was “extra,” optional, or irrelevant.

I know there are single moms doing it alone. I respect the hell out of that. I really do. But that’s not what’s happening here.

We have shared daughters. I’m an involved, present, deeply loving father. And still, I’ve had to fight just to be seen as an equal parent. I’ve had to stay quiet when things didn’t feel fair, just to keep peace. I’ve had to watch decisions be made without me, plans made around me, while my resources were used to fund a life I wasn’t invited to participate in.

The most painful part?

The older the girls get—now teenagers, one in high school, one heading toward college—the more direct support would actually make the most sense. The more they could benefit from their dad giving to them. I could help with a car. With tuition. With daily life expenses. With navigating real adulthood. I could sit down with them, help plan a future, give them resources, wisdom, and stability.

But instead, even now, I’m expected to continue handing that support over through someone else, through a system that doesn’t consider how that undermines the relationship I’ve built. It doesn’t matter that my daughters are old enough to speak for themselves or receive support directly. The system isn’t built that way. It assumes that financial provision must pass through the same channel—even when the person on the receiving end is no longer the one in need.

And it’s not just about money.

What’s rarely acknowledged is everything outside the payment: the trips, the gas, the groceries, the extra shoes, the moments of “Dad, can I have…” that I never say no to. The emotional support. The last-minute rescues. The late-night talks. The college planning. The life coaching. The therapy bills. The quiet, invisible work of fatherhood. The stuff that doesn’t show up in court documents but defines who I am as a dad.

When child support gets weaponized out of entitlement instead of need, it doesn’t just burden the father—it sabotages the very life he’s trying to give his child. It turns presence into paperwork. It strips away the natural rhythm of co-parenting and replaces it with a transactional exchange—one that leaves fathers like me feeling sidelined and silent.

There’s something deeply wrong with a system that allows that.

A system that’s built for accountability should also be built for fairness. It should protect the parent who’s present, not just punish the one who isn’t. But too often, it fails to see the full picture. It doesn’t see the father who shows up. It doesn’t see the man who has poured everything he has into building a life for his kids—only to be told that his growth now counts against him.

Let me be clear: I’m not against child support. I know it’s necessary. I know there are parents out there doing the work alone, and they need every bit of help they can get. But there are also fathers—good fathers—being penalized not for failing their kids, but for succeeding in life.
And when the system can’t tell the difference, it fails everyone.

For fathers who are present—for the ones who give and give and still aren’t seen—this system feels broken. Not because we want to avoid responsibility, but because we want to do more than just pay. We want to raise our kids. We want to be part of their lives. We want to invest in who they’re becoming, not just who they’ve been.

We want to build something with them—not just fund something from the outside.

And sometimes, the system makes that harder than it needs to be.