Can children turn their backs on their father after divorce? My children refuse to know me because I once walked away.
Natasha and I spent twelve years together. I thought our marriage was strong until I noticed the distance growing between us. After our daughters, Emily and Charlotte, were born, my wife threw herself entirely into motherhood. I don’t blame her—children demand attention. But I began to feel invisible, as though the woman beside me wasn’t my wife anymore, just the mother of my children.
We barely spoke. For years, we slept in separate rooms. I longed for warmth, for comfort, for a simple look that told 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. So I came home and told Natasha the truth—I was leaving.
I expected shouting, tears, a scene. But she just nodded quietly and said she understood. No begging, no accusations. We divorced. I married Sophie. At first, everything felt bright and new—she supported me, cared for me, stood by me. Then it all fell apart again—misunderstanding, coldness, distance.
Our eldest was a teenager then; the youngest still in primary school. Natasha decided the children shouldn’t see me. She said it was better for them—less disruption. Through my mother, I sent gifts and money, as she was the only one still in touch with Natasha. At least that way, I could still be present—even if at arm’s length.
Then my son, Oliver, was born. With him, I wanted to do everything differently. I held 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, as I later discovered. She set conditions—visits on a schedule, strict rules, money for every little thing. Then her new husband decided I had no place in their lives. The last threads holding me to my son were cut.
Now I’m sixty-seven. My daughters have their own families, their own children—grandchildren I’ve never held. My son is grown, but I don’t know where he is, how he lives, who he’s become. Not one of them calls. Not one writes. It’s as if I don’t exist.
Yes, I made mistakes. Yes, I walked away. But does that mean I should be erased from their lives forever?
I tried to be there. I did what I could. But everyone has limits. I’m not making excuses—I just want to be heard. I may have left, but I never stopped being their father.
Now, I’m alone. No family, no children nearby. Holidays stretch out empty. The phone stays silent. Sometimes, I’m afraid I’ll die, and no one will notice. Sometimes I wonder—should I write? Should I call? But what do I say? *Sorry I was weak? Sorry I couldn’t hold us together?*
Do I not deserve a single call? Do I not have the right to know how my children are? Why does their silence feel like a life sentence?
Sometimes, I sit on a bench near my house and watch other grandfathers stroll with their grandchildren. I listen to them laugh, to the cheerful cries of, *”Grandad, come see!”* No one will ever call me that.
Time slips away. I don’t want to die feeling like I was nothing to the people I loved more than life. I wasn’t perfect. I made mistakes. But isn’t love measured by more than just actions?
I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. But I still hope. I’m still waiting.
