Could children turn away from their father after a divorce? My children refuse to know me because I once left.
Emily and I spent twelve years together. I believed our marriage was strong until I noticed us drifting apart. After our daughters—Sophie and Amelia—were born, my wife threw herself entirely into motherhood. I don’t blame her for it—children need attention. But I began to feel like a ghost, as though the woman beside me was no longer my wife, just the mother of my girls, and nothing more.
We barely spoke. For years, we slept in separate rooms. I missed warmth, kindness, a simple glance that made me feel seen. Then, one day, I met another woman—Charlotte. 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 Emily honestly: I’m leaving.
I expected shouting, tears, a scene. But Emily only nodded quietly and said she understood. No begging, no blame. We divorced. I married Charlotte. At first, everything felt bright and new—she was there for me, kind, attentive. Then it all fell apart again—the same silence, the same coldness, the same distance.
My eldest was a teenager then, the youngest in primary school. Emily decided the children shouldn’t see me. She said it would be easier for them without disruptions. Through my mother, I sent gifts and money—she still spoke to Emily. At least that way, I was still there, even if through another’s hands.
Then my son, Oliver, was born. With him, I wanted to do everything differently. I carried him in my arms, taught him to speak, played with him every evening. But Charlotte left too. He was only four. She found someone younger, more successful, I later learned. She set the terms: scheduled visits, strict control, money for every little thing. Then her new husband said I had no place in their lives. My bond with my son was cut.
Now I’m sixty-seven. My daughters have families of their own, children I’ve never held—grandchildren who don’t know my name. My son is grown, but I don’t know where he is, how he lives, who he became. 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 close. I helped as much as I could. But everyone has a breaking point. I’m not making excuses—I just want to be heard. I left, but I never stopped being their father.
Now I’m alone. No family, no children nearby. Holidays are hollow. The phone never rings. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll die, and no one will know. Sometimes I think—should I write? Call? But what would I say? *Sorry I was weak? Sorry I couldn’t hold us together?*
Do I not deserve even one call? Do I not 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 laughing with their grandchildren. I hear them call, *”Grandad, come here!”* No one will ever say that to me.
Time slips 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 measured only by actions?
I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. But I still hope. I’m still waiting.
