Can children turn away from their father after a divorce? My own children refuse to know me, all because I once walked away.
Natalie and I spent twelve years together. I thought our marriage was unshakable—until I noticed the distance growing between us. After our daughters, Emily and Alice, were born, my wife poured herself entirely into motherhood. I don’t blame her for that—children need care. But I became invisible, as if she 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 longed for warmth, for comfort, just a glance that told me I still mattered. Then, one day, I met another woman—Sophie. She was younger, listened to me, asked 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 Natalie honestly: I’m leaving.
I expected shouting, tears, a storm of anger. But Natalie stayed quiet. She just nodded and said she understood—no pleas to stay, no accusations. We divorced. I married Sophie. At first, everything felt bright and new—she was there for me, caring, close. Then, slowly, it fell apart again—misunderstandings, coldness, silence.
Our eldest was a teenager then; the youngest still in primary school. Natalie decided it was best if the girls didn’t see me. Less upheaval, she said. Through my mother, I sent gifts and money, whatever I could. It was the only way to stay in their lives—even if through someone else’s hands.
Later, Sophie and I had a son—James. With him, I wanted to do everything right. I carried him in my arms, taught him to speak, played with him every evening. Then Sophie left too. He was only four. She’d found someone younger, more successful—so I heard later. She set the rules: scheduled visits, strict control, money for every little thing. Then her new husband decided I didn’t belong in their lives. My bond with my son was cut.
Now, I’m sixty-seven. My daughters have families of their own—grandchildren I’ve never held. My son is grown, but I don’t know where he is, how he lives, what he’s become. No calls. No messages. As if I don’t exist at all. Yes, I made mistakes. Yes, I left. But does that mean I should be erased from their lives completely?
I tried to stay present. Helped where I could. But everyone has a breaking point. I’m not making excuses—I just want to be heard. I walked away, but I never stopped being their father.
Now, I’m alone. No family, no children near. Holidays are hollow. The phone never rings. Sometimes, I’m afraid I’ll die and no one will notice. Sometimes, I think—should I write? Call? But what would I say?
Forgive me for being weak? For failing to hold us together?
Do I not deserve one phone 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 walking with their grandchildren. I listen when they call, “Grandad, come here!” But no one calls for me.
Time slips away. I don’t want to die feeling like I was nothing to the ones 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’m still waiting.
