I married young—21—and became a father at 22. But over time, my wife and I drifted apart. By the time our son was 11, our marriage was hollow: no intimacy, no real conversation. I made the painful decision to leave. My wife was devastated, and my son—he hated me. I tried to stay in his life, visiting, sending gifts, showing up at his games. But he shut me out completely. Every time I saw him, he ran to his room, telling me he hated me. It felt like he’d died. I was drowning in guilt and grief.
The divorce finalized a year later. We had 50/50 custody, but therapy didn’t help. My son refused to come to my place, and I didn’t force him. I kept trying—birthdays, holidays, school events—but he wanted nothing to do with me. Even my ex wouldn’t make him see me. Eventually, I stopped showing up. I spiraled into depression, mourning the loss of a child who was still alive. I couldn’t see a way forward. Then, one morning, I woke up and realized I had to let go. I had to live again.
Years passed. I met someone new, remarried, and had two beautiful children. Life began to bloom again. Then, out of nowhere, my son reached out. He apologized. Said he understood now. But I didn’t feel relief—I felt anger. Where was this understanding when I was broken? I told him I didn’t want contact. I had built a new life, and I wasn’t ready to reopen old wounds. It wasn’t revenge. It was survival. I had finally found peace, and I wasn’t willing to lose it again.
I know it sounds cruel. But I gave everything I had to that relationship, and it nearly destroyed me. My son had every right to his feelings—but so did I. I hope he finds healing, just as I did. But I won’t go back. Some doors, once closed, must stay that way.
