Can children turn their backs on their father after a divorce? My own children refuse to know me—simply because I once walked away.
I spent twelve years with Charlotte. I believed our marriage was solid until I noticed us drifting apart. After our daughters—Emily and Abigail—were born, my wife became wholly absorbed in motherhood. I don’t blame her for that; children demand attention. But I began to feel like a ghost—as if the woman beside me wasn’t my wife anymore, just the mother of my children, nothing more.
We barely spoke. For years, we slept in separate rooms. I craved warmth, reassurance, just a single glance where I still mattered. And then, one day, I met another woman—Sophie. She was younger, listened to me, cared about my life, looked at me in a way my wife hadn’t in years. I didn’t want to cheat. I came home and told Charlotte honestly: I’m leaving.
I expected shouting, tears, hysterics. But Charlotte reacted in silence. Just a nod and quiet words—*I understand*. No pleas for me to stay, no accusations. We divorced. I married Sophie. At first, everything felt bright and new—she supported me, took care of me, stood by me. Then, slowly, it all crumbled again—misunderstanding, distance, the same cold void.
Our eldest was a teenager then, the youngest still in primary school. Charlotte decided the girls shouldn’t see me. She said they’d be better off without the upheaval. Through my mother, I sent gifts and money—the only way I could stay in their lives, even if through another’s hands.
Then my son was born—James. With him, I vowed to do everything differently. I held him, taught him to speak, played with him every evening. But Sophie left too. He was only four. She found someone younger, wealthier—I learned that later. She set the rules: scheduled visits, strict boundaries, payments for every little thing. Then her new husband declared I had no place in their lives. The last thread to my son snapped.
Now I’m sixty-seven. My daughters have their own families, their own children—grandkids I’ve never held. James is grown, but I don’t know where he is, how he lives, who he’s become. No calls. No letters. It’s as if I don’t exist. I made mistakes, yes. I walked away. But does that mean I should be erased forever?
I tried to stay present. I helped as much as I could. But every man has his limit. I’m not excusing myself—I just want to be heard. I left, but I never stopped being their father.
Now, I’m alone. No family. No children. Holidays stretch empty. The phone never rings. Sometimes, I even fear I’ll die, and no one will know. Sometimes I wonder—should I write? Call? But what would I say? *Forgive me for being weak? For failing to hold us together?*
Don’t I deserve at least one call? Don’t I have the right to know how my children are? Why does their silence feel like a life sentence?
Sometimes, I sit on the bench near my house and watch other grandfathers with their grandchildren. I listen to them laugh, *”Grandad, come here!”* No one will ever call me that.
Time is slipping away. I don’t want to die feeling like I meant nothing to the people I loved most. I wasn’t perfect. I made mistakes. But is love only measured by what we do right?
I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. But I still hope. I still wait.
