When Court Felt Like the Only Option: A Mum’s C100 Form Journey

I never thought I'd be the kind of person who filled in a court form at her kitchen table at midnight, crying into a mug of cold tea. But there I was, reading the same paragraph on the C100 for the third time, trying to work out whether I was supposed to tick "lives with" or "spends time with" for a child who hadn't seen his dad in eleven weeks.

That's the thing nobody tells you about separation. You think the worst part will be the conversation, the one where someone says it's over. But the worst part, for me at least, came months later. It came quietly, in the form of unanswered texts and broken promises and my son standing at the living room window on a Saturday morning, still in his coat, waiting for a car that wasn't coming.

His name's *Alfie. He was six then. He's eight now, and he's doing brilliantly, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

When *Marcus and I split up, it was mostly civilised. We'd been together nine years, married for five, and honestly the last two of those had been more like flatmates than anything else. He moved into a rented place about twenty minutes away, and for the first few months, things were fine. Alfie stayed with me during the week and went to his dad's every other weekend and one evening in between. We didn't write it down. We just sort of agreed.

Then Marcus met someone. And everything shifted.

The midweek evening stopped first. Then the weekends became patchy, every other weekend turned into once a month, then once a month became "I'll let you know." I tried talking to him. I really did. I sent calm messages, suggested we sit down and sort out a proper arrangement. He'd agree, then cancel, then go quiet for days. Meanwhile Alfie started asking questions I didn't know how to answer.

"Is Daddy cross with me?"

That one broke me. I sat on his bedroom floor after he fell asleep and I just sobbed. Because no, Daddy wasn't cross with him. But I couldn't explain what was actually happening without making it worse.

My mum was the one who first mentioned mediation. She'd seen something about it on television, one of those daytime programmes, and she rang me on a Tuesday evening to tell me about it. I wasn't keen at first. The idea of sitting in a room with Marcus while someone tried to get us to compromise felt exhausting. But I looked into it, and I learned that I actually needed to consider mediation before I could apply to court anyway. That was news to me. I'd assumed court was just something you could do whenever you needed to.

So I booked a MIAM, which is basically an initial meeting to see whether mediation might work. I went on my own first, and the mediator was lovely, a woman called *Sarah who explained everything without making me feel stupid. She said mediation wasn't about taking sides, it was about finding something that worked for Alfie. I liked that she kept bringing it back to him.

Marcus was invited to attend his own MIAM. He didn't respond for two weeks. Then he said he'd think about it. Then nothing.

Sarah told me, gently, that if he wouldn't engage, she could sign a document confirming I'd tried. That document, she explained, was what I'd need if I wanted to go ahead with a court application. She also talked me through what that would actually involve, the C100 form, what the court would want to know, what might happen next. She didn't push me either way. She just made sure I understood my options.

I want to be honest here. Filling in that C100 form was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It asks you to lay out your child's life in boxes and tick marks. Where do they live. Who do they spend time with. What arrangements have been tried. Whether there are any safety concerns. It's clinical and cold, and it doesn't capture any of the feelings underneath. It doesn't ask about the Saturday mornings at the window, or the way your child stops mentioning their other parent because they've learned not to expect anything.

I sat with it for three evenings before I posted it. I kept second-guessing myself. Was I doing the right thing? Was I being dramatic? Would Marcus hate me? Would Alfie, one day, think I'd caused all of this?

A friend told me something that helped. She said, "You're not taking Marcus to court. You're asking the court to help Alfie have a relationship with his dad." That reframing mattered. Because that was the truth. I wasn't doing this out of anger. I was doing it because my little boy deserved better than silence.

After I sent the form off, there was a long wait. Weeks of nothing. Then a letter arrived confirming a first hearing. I remember reading it in the car, hands shaking. It felt enormous. Like something official was finally happening.

The first hearing was at our local family court, and it wasn't what I expected. I'd imagined something like the telly, with a judge in robes and barristers arguing. It was much smaller and quieter than that. A district judge, a small room, and a Cafcass officer who'd spoken to both of us beforehand. Marcus was there, looking uncomfortable. We didn't sit together.

The judge was firm but fair. She asked Marcus directly about the contact that had dropped off, and he didn't have a great answer. She made an interim order, every other weekend and a midweek tea visit, and she recommended that we try mediation again before the next hearing.

This time, Marcus actually turned up.

I won't pretend those sessions were easy. They weren't. There were moments I wanted to scream, particularly when he talked about how "busy" he'd been, as if that explained eleven weeks of absence. But the mediator kept us focused. She wouldn't let us spiral into blame. Every time one of us started going backwards, she'd say, "And what do you think would work best for Alfie going forward?" It was simple, but it worked.

Over three sessions, we agreed on a schedule. It wasn't exactly what I'd wanted, and I'm sure it wasn't exactly what Marcus wanted either, but it was clear and it was consistent, and that's what Alfie needed. We wrote it all down, and the mediator helped us turn it into a parenting plan that we could take back to court to have it made into a consent order.

The second hearing was short. The judge read through what we'd agreed, asked a couple of questions, and approved it. I walked out of that building feeling lighter than I had in months.

That was almost two years ago now. Marcus isn't perfect, I'm sure he'd say the same about me, but he shows up. The schedule works. Alfie knows when he's going to Dad's, and he doesn't stand at the window anymore. Last month he came home from a weekend there chattering about a football match they'd been to, and I caught myself smiling while I unpacked his bag. Not because everything was fixed, but because it was working.

If you'd told me, back when I was sitting on that bedroom floor crying, that we'd get here, I wouldn't have believed you. The court process was frightening. The forms were confusing. The waiting was awful. But asking for help, first through mediation and then through the court when I had to, it gave Alfie something I couldn't give him on my own: a proper, reliable relationship with both his parents.

I don't regret any of it. Not the tears, not the forms, not the difficult conversations in that mediation room. It was hard, but it was worth it. For him, it was absolutely worth it.

This story is based on real mediation experiences - *names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.