On April 18, 2025, Melissa reached out with a lifeline. She reminded Mark that resources had already been placed in his hands—licensed providers, some even willing to work across state lines—so he could finally begin the evaluations required by the court. It was not an accusation. It was not hostile. It was the simplest of nudges: go back to that email, take the first step, start moving toward your children again.

Mark’s response was seven words:

“I am working on that as we speak.”

That was 127 days ago.

Since then, not one evaluation has been scheduled. Not one phone call or appointment made. Not one effort to take the clear, court-ordered path laid before him. In fact, aside from this hollow cliché, the only other correspondence that day was a threat about a 2013 tax issue—a grievance dragged from twelve years ago to distract from the present.

And then, silence.

The only exception? He logged into the court-mandated communication tool, Our Family Wizard, once. He didn’t read any of the journal entries. He didn’t open a single email. He didn’t enter anything himself. Just logged in, then logged back out. Who knows why—habit, curiosity, a show for someone else? Whatever the reason, it wasn’t to engage as a father.

No questions about how his sons are doing. No updates. No acknowledgement of Liam’s fragile health or Nathan’s milestones. Nothing. Just the daily stream of curated victimhood on social media, designed for an audience of strangers, while the people who matter most receive nothing but absence.

His last words to their mother and, by extension, to his children, weren’t about love. They weren’t about accountability. They weren’t about hope. They were an empty promise—“working on it as we speak”—spoken into the void, never followed by action.

If legacy is written in the words we choose and the actions that follow, then Mark’s final entry is this: a stall and a threat, with nothing for his children in between.