Can kids turn their backs on their dad after a divorce? Mine want nothing to do with me just because I walked away once.
Natasha and I were together for twelve years. I thought our marriage was solid until I noticed us drifting apart. After our daughters—Emily and Sophie—were born, my wife threw herself entirely into motherhood. I don’t blame her for it—kids need attention—but I started feeling invisible, like I wasn’t her husband anymore, just the father of her children.
We barely spoke. For years, we slept in separate rooms. I missed the warmth, the support, just a look that made me feel like I mattered. Then I met another woman—Lucy. 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 straight: I’m leaving.
I expected shouting, tears, a scene. But she just nodded quietly and said she understood. No begging me to stay, no blame. We divorced. I married Lucy. At first, everything felt bright and new—she supported me, took care of me, was there for me. Then it all fell apart again—the same silence, the same cold distance.
Our eldest was a teenager then, the youngest still in primary school. Natasha decided the kids shouldn’t see me. She said it’d be easier for them without the upheaval. I sent gifts and money through my mum since she still spoke to Natasha. That’s how I stayed in their lives—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 talk, played with him every night. But Lucy left too. He was only four. She found someone younger, more successful—so I heard later. She laid down rules: scheduled visits, strict control, money for every little thing. Then her new husband said I didn’t belong in their lives. My bond with my son was cut.
Now I’m sixty-seven. My daughters have their own families, their own kids—grandchildren I’ve never held. William’s grown up, but I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s become. No one calls. No one writes. It’s like I don’t exist. I made mistakes, I walked away—yes. But does that mean I should be erased forever?
I tried to stay involved. I helped as much as I could. But everyone has their limit. I’m not making excuses—I just want to be heard. I left, but I never stopped being their dad.
Now I’m alone. No family, no kids nearby. Holidays are empty. My phone never rings. Sometimes I’m scared I’ll die and no one will know. Sometimes I wonder—should I write? Call? But what do I say? “Sorry I was weak”? “Sorry I couldn’t hold us together”?
Don’t I deserve even one call? Don’t I have the right to know how my kids are doing? Why does their silence feel like a life sentence?
Sometimes I sit on the bench outside my house and watch other grandads playing with their grandkids. I hear them call, “Grandad, come here!” No one’s ever said that to me.
Time’s 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 actions?
I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. But I still hope. I’m still waiting.
