The Third Mrs. Smith

Content note: this episode discusses severe child abuse, trauma, and grief.

Adult language is also used.

If you’d like to read the written version of this episode and see the documents, photos, and materials connected to it, you can subscribe to Cold and Blue on Substack. That’s where I’ll be sharing the deeper written pieces and the supporting evidence behind each episode.

If you suspect a child is being abused or neglected, you can call the Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline at 1-800-422-4453, available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Carpenter, made that call. Without her, there is no complaint, no judgment, no record that any of this happened. Jonah and I stay in that house. I don't let myself think too long about what comes after that. 

What's in the paid Substack post

• The official  child abuse complaint
• Yearbook photo of "Mother"
• The door to the basement
• the basement
• The house
• The marriage license

Transcript

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I thought I was investigating Chuck. I thought the story was about my mother's death, his different versions of what happened, you know, the death certificate, the lack of an autopsy, and the way he just kept moving like my mother's life was something he could fold up and put away. Honestly, that part felt easier. Not easy. None of this is easy. But Chuck was facts. Chuck was timelines. Chuck was paperwork. Chuck was the man whose name was already sitting in the center of the story. And Chuck was grounded in my relationship with Kate and Dale. But there was always someone else there, lurking in the background. A woman whose name would come up and then disappear again. A woman attached to Chuck. A woman my mother's own aunt described as that quote-unquote horrible woman. A woman my Aunt C could barely talk about without absolute disgust. And that stupid nickname, she would say. Muggsy. For a long time, I treated Muggsy like a side character. Like she was just part of the ugly aftermath. Chuck's woman, Chuck's next wife, somebody who came after my mother. But I don't think that anymore. Because the more I look at the documents, the more I realize Muggsy was not simply in the background. She was in the address. She was very much a part of the timeline. She was in the role of mother after my actual mother was already dead. And I think that is why I have avoided this part of the story. Because I can talk about Chuck. I can talk about the death certificate. I can talk about the timeline. I can talk about Chuck all day. I do not have any feelings towards Chuck. But when I try to talk about Muggsy, something in my body starts to panic. I cannot picture her face. I know that sounds a little bit strange, but I cannot. When I try to picture her, I do not see a normal person with features and contacts. I see what my child brain stored. A dark shape, a faceless presence. Something I was terrified to look up at. This is me describing how my three-year-old nervous system remembered danger. And okay, maybe that sounds dramatic, but I was three. My mother was dead. Another woman was being put in her place. And according to the court records, I was being severely abused by this woman. This episode is about the woman in the background. The one I've been afraid to look at. This episode is about Muggsy. My name is Chelsea, and this is Cold and Blue. This episode involves child abuse, grief, family trauma, and court records involving a very young child. And that child was me. I'm going to talk about real people, real documents, and real events from my family's history. Some of the people in the story are deceased, and some are very much still alive. So as you listen, please know there is a difference between what the records say, what people remember, and what I believe. And what I'm still trying to find out. For this episode, I'm going to refer to the woman Chuck married after my mother died as Muggsy. I'm choosing not to use her full legal name here because some people connected to the story may still be living. And even though she certainly doesn't deserve to be kept in the shadow, I don't want to waste any unnecessary breath on her. Plus, as always, the court docs are in the pace of Zektier, and I highly encourage you to be nosy. One more thing before we go further. The documents in this story are adult documents: marriage license, court complaints, judgment entries, custody records. But inside all of that paperwork were two very little kids. Jonah was four. I was two when my mother died, and three by the time that the court records started calling me an abused child. And honestly, that changes the way I read every single one of these pages. Because adults can write anything down. They can list addresses, they can sign licenses, they can say they live here or there. They can move children around. They can pretty much do whatever they want. But a child does not live inside any of those words. A child lives inside the room. The body. And when I look at the marriage license now, I have to stop and take a breath. Because it is all right there. Chuck and the woman I'm calling Muggsy applied for a marriage license in Erie County. The license was issued October 24th, 1986. They were married November 7th, 1986. On Muggsy's birthday. So less than four months after my mother was buried in the ground, Chuck was marrying another woman. But that is not even the part that makes me feel physically ill. The part that makes me just absolutely cringe, my mind explode, is the address. On that marriage license, Muggsy lists the same address as Chuck. 4615 Southern Drive. Maybe that is where they were staying. Maybe there was some explanation that makes it less disgusting. But I need you to understand what this looks like from where I'm sitting. My mother died in that house. Her children were still babies. Her family was looking for us. My grandfather was actively looking for us at this time. And then this other woman, this woman who would marry Chuck lesson four months later, is using my mother's address like it is hers now. Like my mother is gone, so the space is open. Like she could just step on into it. I think there's a Taylor Swift song about that. On the same license, Chuck lists two prior marriages. The first one is to Dale's mom. And that ended April 1st, 1981. 24 days before he married my mother. And let's also note that when he married my mother, my mom was already six months pregnant with Jonah. I say that very slowly because I want you to hear how close everything always is in Chuck's timeline. Nothing ever breathes. One marriage ends, another one begins. My mother is pregnant, then years later, my mother dies, and another woman is already close enough to be using her address. His second marriage, the marriage to my mother, is listed on the license as ending in one word. Death. That's it. Not suspicious, not questioned, not even illness. Just death. My mom's whole life with him was reduced to a box on a form. And besides that word is a woman who came next. Muggsy. So there's another thing about the address that I can't let go of. Because in the child abuse records, there's a language saying we had been living in Ohio since August of 1986. I'm talking about August, like the one that comes right after July 1986. So that is accurate. Then by August, barely a month after my mom died, Chuck, Muggsy, Joan, and I were all in Ohio. But then in October, Chuck and Muggsy are applying for a marriage license. Now I've spoken to some amazing people that have helped me acquire a lot of records. And they said to apply for a marriage license, you do not have to be in state to do so, but you do have to be in the state to get married. So when they traveled to Erie, back to Erie on November 7th to get married, where were Jonah and I? Were we in Ohio? Were we in Erie? Were we going back and forth? Were we with them when they came back to Erie? Were we hidden somewhere while my grandfather was actively looking for us? Is that a memory locked in with my food insecurity and my hypervigilance and need to know where everyone is at all times? My grandfather was more than looking for us. He had hired a private detective. He was not calmly accepting that Chuck had disappeared with Kathy's children after her death. He was very much involved in finding us. So the idea of Chuck coming back to Erie, putting my mother's address on a marriage license, and marrying another woman while people were trying to find us is actually wild to me. Well, it okay, so it's more than wild. It's chilling. Because where were the children? Where were the children while the adults were rewriting the story? Where were the children while Muggsy became Mrs. Smith? Where were the children when my mother's house became another woman's address? And where were the children when Chuck checked a box that said his marriage ended in death? But this is not just messy paperwork to me. This is the paper trail of a dead woman, a missing family, two little kids, an extremely fast remarriage, and a woman stepping into a role she had no right to touch. So let's talk about what this means for a child. Because I can sit here now as an adult and look at a marriage license and understand what it says. I can understand dates, I can understand prior marriages, I can understand divorce and death and addresses, and honestly, I can even understand being frustrated with small toddlers. But at the time, I couldn't understand any of that. I was two. A two-year-old does not understand that her mother's marriage has just been legally replaced by another one. Two-year-old does not understand that adults are allowed to lie or hide things or move children or act like everything is normal when nothing is normal. A two-year-old just knows her mother is gone. And that is not a small thing. At that age, your mother is not an idea. She is not a memory you can organize. She is your world. She is your safety. She is the smell you know, the voice you know, the person your body searches for when you are scared or tired or hungry or overwhelmed? My mother was that for me, and so was my grandfather. So, what happens when that person or persons disappears? What happens when nobody explains it in a way your little brain can hold? What happens when the house changes? What happens when another woman appears? And what happens when you're expected to call that woman mommy? Because I do not think we always understand how violent that is to a child's mind. And this part I had to force myself to go back into my recording studio because this one matters. I wanted to avoid it. I didn't want to give you details, but it doesn't it it doesn't flow right without the details. Because Muggsy was supposed to be the replacement for my mother. Mother dies, and then this woman is put in front of me like, here, this is mommy now. But she was not my mother. And she was not soft, she was not safe, she was not someone who loved me. In my memory, she hated me. I knew she hated me. I remember her telling me she hated me. And I know that is a big thing to say. I know this is not something I'm reading from a document right now. This is my memory. This is what I remember as a very young three-year-old child. But I also know what it felt like to be that little girl in that house, kept in that basement. It felt like I was nothing. It felt like I was not wanted. It felt like I was in the way. And when I say my body remembers Muggsy as danger, this is what I mean. I remember things that sound so strange when I say them now, because they are not normal things. They are not things that should ever happen to a child. I remember being put in a tree, like on a tree branch. I don't even know what category that falls under. I don't know if there is some clean name for that kind of abuse or punishment or terror. I just know that in my memory, they would pick me up and put me on a tall tree limb and just walk away. And I remember being so afraid. Just absolutely crippled with fear. The kind of fear where your whole body learns a lesson. Do not move. Do not cry. Do not make it worse. Freeze. I think I taught myself that very early. That when I'm in danger, I freeze, I get quiet, I go still, I disappear from the inside out. And that still is with me. Because that is not just a memory. That is a survival response I carried into my whole life. There are parts of me that still believe freezing is the safest thing I can do. There are parts of me that still believes if I move, if I speak, if I fight, something worse will happen. And then there is one memory that is still very hard for me to talk about. I have done so much trauma work around this. I can look at it now without it destroying the rest of my day, and that is progress. But it still lives in me. I remember them telling Jonah they were going to take me away and kill me, that they were going to take me and never bring me back. And I remember Jonah crying so hard that it was violent, violently crying. He was only five. He was a little boy who had already lost his mother, and then he was being made to believe he was going to lose me too. And then I remember being thrown into the van, and I remember Chuck driving me to a field, and I remember being thrown out and left there. I was three. I remember the anguish, I remember the terror. I remember Jonah at the door. I remember what it felt like to be a child. And understand, not in words, but in your body, that the adult around you could make you disappear. That is why these details matter. Because this was not just some chaotic remarriage after my mother died. This was not just about a woman with a nickname. This was not a messy family situation. This was pure terror. This was a child being taught that love could vanish, that mommy could be replaced, that the replacement did not love her, that danger came from people in charge, and that the safest thing to do was freeze. So when I say I was afraid of Muggsy, I do not mean I disliked her. I mean I was afraid of her in a way a child is afraid of something she cannot survive alone. And that is why I do not want to make this episode neat, because none of this was neat. My mother was gone. The woman who came after her did not feel like a mother to me. In fact, nobody has ever been able to replace that feeling that I had when my mother was alive. Everyone else pretty much just felt like danger. And I was too little to be able to express that. So even now, sometimes, my body says it for me. And I have to come back to reality, come back to my body, come back to the fact that I'm almost 43 years old and I'm safe. I am safe. I am safe. For a child that young, mommy is not just a title. Mommy means safe. Mommy means comfort. Mommy means the person who comes when you cry. Mommy means the person your nervous system is built around. So what happens when mommy dies? And the new mommy is someone your body remembers as danger. What happens to that child's trust? What happens to your body when that person you are supposed to attach to is the person you are afraid of? That's not me being dramatic. That is what child development is. That age is when you are learning whether the world is safe, whether adults come back, whether your cries matter, whether your body belongs to you, whether love protects you or hurts you. And in my story, all of that gets scrambled. Then there is the abuse complaint. And this is the document that made me stop treating Muggsy like a shadow. At the top it says, read Chelsea Smith, and then it says abused. The complaint says I was three years old. It lists me as a child of Charles Smith and Kathleen Smith. And beside my mother's name, it says deceased. That matters. Because the complaint goes on to describe what was alleged to have been done to me. It says corporal punishment was excessive under their circumstances and created a substantial risk of serious physical harm. It says both parents admitted to striking me in the buttocks and lower legs numerous times with a wooden ruler, causing excessive redness and bruising. It says mother slapped me on the left side of my face, causing redness and bruising. It says mother grabbed me by my clothing, causing red marks to my neck. This was all that was found in one moment in April. Just one moment, what they found when they walked in the house. My mother. So when that document says mother, it does not mean Kathy, even though it was like to pretend like she's my biological mother. Kathy was dead. Kathy was buried. Kathy was not in Ohio hitting me with a ruler or punching me in the face. So Muggsy is mother. The woman who is pretending to be my mother is the woman in these documents slapping me and carrying me by the neck of my shirt. And when I read these documents, my body knows exactly why it wants to look away. Because by then, my actual mother was gone, and the woman who came after her was not just some person around Chuck. She had been put in the role as mother. She was being treated as mother. She was being made into mommy. And the complaint alleges mother severely hurt me. And that is where my body goes cold because now the fear has a document. And it also validates my memory of that day very clearly. When I look back and I read the judgment from the court that I was adjudicated an abused child and so was Jonah. When I read that at first, I didn't feel relief. Maybe I should have, but honestly, what I felt was rage. Because why did it have to get that far? Why did my mother have to die? Couldn't you just have gotten a divorce? You could have just not paid child support. We already know you're capable of that. You could have left my mother alive. Why did the adults get to keep moving, keep signing forms, keep making choices while the children were the ones carrying the damaged. This is why Muggsy does not feel like a side character to me anymore. Chuck is terrifying in a different way. Chuck is the man in the center of the official story. He's the husband, he's the biological father, the one that connects me to Kate and Dale and Dale's brother. But Muggsy is something else. She is the one that I've actively been ignoring because my body and my mind have been too afraid to look at her. Muggsy is the woman my body has been warning me about for 40 years. Yeah, that sounds strange, I know. But when I try to picture her, I cannot see her face. I see a figure holding a glass of red wine. I see something dark. I see expecting to be hit, bracing for impact. I see an entire situation that I just I was not prepared to look at. Yeah, and I definitely judged myself for that. I thought, why can't I just remember her normally? Why does she feel like some horror movie thing? Why does even saying her name make my heart race? Why is recording this episode so difficult for me? But now I understand a little bit differently. A three-year-old does not store terror like an adult does. A three-year-old does not file it away in neat paragraphs. She stores it in flashes, in feelings in the body, in the instinct to freeze or be wary of people, in the urge to be quiet, in the inability to look someone in the face. So when I say my child brain stored Muggsy as a dark, faceless present, I'm not saying that as a cute line in a Disney story like Mother Gothel or something. I'm saying that is how my nervous system remembered danger. Faceless, dark. Do not look, do not speak, make yourself small. Don't make it worse. And this is a hundred percent why I've been avoiding recording this episode. Because some part of me still thinks talking about her is dangerous. Some part of me still thinks I should shut up. But I'm not three anymore. I do not know if she knows anything about how my mother died. I'm not saying I can prove she was involved in any way. What I'm saying is this. She was not background. The documents do not let her stay in the background. The timeline does not let her stay in the background. My body, remembering her slaps and her kicks and her punches, will not let her stay in the background. This story isn't only about what happened to my mom Kathy. Like I've said in many episodes, it's about what happened after Kathy was gone. It's about how quickly her life was overwritten. It's about how quickly another woman stepped into her space. It's about how two children were moved through chaos while adults made choices around them. It's about a little boy named Jonah and a little girl named Chelsea who lost their mother and then lost safety right after. And it's about the fact that some things do not disappear just because a child cannot explain them. Sometimes the body keeps the record until the paper catches up. For years, I thought my fear of Muggsy was just a memory problem. Like maybe I had made her scarier than she was. Maybe I had turned her into a monster because I was little. But now, I look at these documents and I think maybe little Chelsea knew exactly what she was looking at. Not the facts, not a timeline, not legal language, but the danger. She knew not to look. She knew not to speak. She knew that the woman in front of her was not her mother. And she knew that mommy was supposed to mean save. So no. Muggsy was the part of the story I had not faced until now. And because three-year-old Chelsea deserves someone to finally say it out loud. That was not your mother. That was not love. That was not normal. And you were not wrong to be afraid. With all due respect to the silence that kept three-year-old Chelsea alive, fuck Muggsy. Fuck the fear. Fuck the way her name still makes my body react. And fuck the idea that I have to protect the adult in this story more than I protected the child who lived through it. Because that child was me. And I'm not looking away from her anymore. Thank you all so much for listening. Colin Blue is written and produced by me, Chelsea, executive produced by Lisa Sidney, with research assistance from Kate and Dale, and a special thanks to Jamie for her help retrieving all these records.