Can children turn away from their father after a divorce? My children refuse to know me because I once walked away.
Natalie and I were together for twelve years. I believed our marriage was strong until I noticed us drifting apart. After our daughters—Emily and Charlotte—were born, my wife devoted herself entirely to motherhood. I don’t blame her for that; I understand children demand attention. But I began to feel invisible—as if the woman beside me was no longer my wife, just the mother of my children, and nothing more.
We barely spoke. For years, we slept in separate rooms. I missed warmth, support, just a single glance to remind me I still mattered. 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 Natalie honestly: I’m leaving.
I expected screaming, tears, a scene. But Natalie reacted quietly. Just a nod and a simple, “I understand.” No begging, no blame. We divorced. I married Sophie. At first, everything felt new and bright—she supported me, cared for me, stood by my side. Then it all fell apart again—misunderstandings, coldness, distance.
Our eldest was a teenager then; the youngest still in primary school. Natalie decided the children shouldn’t see me. She said they’d be better off without upheavals. Through my mother, I sent gifts and money, as she still kept in touch. At least that way, I was still there—even if through someone else’s hands.
Later, I had a son—William. With him, I wanted to do everything differently. I carried him in my arms, taught him to speak, played with him every evening. But Sophie left too. He was only four. She found someone younger, more successful, I learned later. She set conditions: scheduled visits, strict control, money for every little thing. Then her new husband said I had no place in their lives. The connection with my son vanished.
Now I’m sixty-seven. My daughters have their own families, their own children—grandkids I’ve never held. My son is grown, but I don’t know where he is, how he lives, who he’s become. None of them call. None write. It’s as if I don’t exist. I made mistakes, I left—yes. But does that mean I should be erased from their lives forever?
I tried to stay present. I helped as much as I could. But every person has their limits. I’m not excusing myself—I just want to be heard. Yes, I walked away, but I never stopped being their father.
Now I’m alone. No family, no children nearby. Holidays are empty. The phone never rings. Sometimes, I even fear I’ll die—and no one will know. Sometimes I wonder: Should I write a letter? Call? But what would I say? “Sorry for being weak”? “Sorry for failing to keep 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 sentence?
Sometimes, I sit on the bench outside my house and watch other grandfathers walking with their grandchildren. I listen as they’re called: “Grandad, come here!” No one will ever say that to me.
Time slips away. I don’t want to die feeling like I was nothing to those I loved most. Imperfect, flawed, yes. But isn’t love more than just actions?
I don’t know if they’ll forgive me. But I still hope. I still wait.
