You know what’s not often talked about when it comes to estranging from a parent? Sometimes the grief is so intense that it feels like you can’t catch your breath. Other times, it creeps in quietly, a dull ache that lingers beneath the surface. It’s almost like mourning — but this was a loss I chose myself.
Many assume that children who distance themselves from a parent do so out of hatred. That’s simply not true. It’s about love — love for oneself and for one’s own family.
I often find myself questioning whether I made the right choice. I recall my father spending countless summer evenings playing cards or mahjong with us. His “hmphs” and grunts echo in my mind every time I respond to my children’s constant chatter. I’m flooded with nostalgia when I see my husband engaging with our kids, lifting them onto his shoulders, chasing them around joyfully.
His absence is felt deeply, especially when I lose my temper and find myself yelling at my kids, a behavior I inherited from him.
My father lit up every room he entered, full of charm and laughter, like a radiant sun. I sometimes wonder if, in an alternate reality, witnessing him as a grandfather would be as comforting as seeing my mother embrace that role. My husband’s father passed away just days before our first child was born, and I can’t help but think I’ve deprived my kids of a grandfather. I question if I exaggerated the fear I felt in his presence — how I missed him during his long work trips, yet felt safe only when he was away.
He was the first man to break my heart, over and over. Despite my love for him, he was primarily focused on himself. It was only after having my own children that I began to understand the profound, unrestrained love that exists between a parent and child. And ultimately, I chose my own well-being over the toxic bond.
It’s been over a decade since I last saw or spoke to my father. I can’t pinpoint the exact date — he was scarcely present. All I know is that in the September before my second child was born, I sent him an email declaring he was “dead” to me. I told him that if he needed care, he could reach out to his secret family — the one I knew about while he was still married to my mother.
My daughter, who has never met him, struggles to comprehend why. She has cried, asking why she hasn’t met her grandfather while her older brother has, saying it feels unfair. Why is Ah Gong kept from her? Why doesn’t he love her? Did I not want to protect my eldest as well?
How do I explain that they lack the instinctive fear required to navigate my father’s presence, regardless of how brief? That they are unprepared for a life lived in constant vigilance, always interpreting the moods of a much larger and stronger man? I’m astonished by how freely my children express themselves; I grew up hiding, always on guard, until I finally exploded.
How do I explain that I only recently learned I could set firm boundaries and keep him from my family? After three decades of justifying his abusive behavior, I finally reached my limit.
Instead, I simply tell them that their grandfather was not a good man, that he hurt me and my mother, that he was a chronic liar, and that I feared for their safety. I would do anything to protect them.
And yet, the ache lingers.
Further Reading
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Summary:
This article reflects on the complex emotions surrounding parental estrangement, specifically the author’s decision to distance herself from her father. While grappling with feelings of grief and nostalgia, the author emphasizes that the choice stems not from hatred but from a desire for self-love and protection for her children. The struggle to explain her choices to her kids highlights the intricacies of familial relationships and the impact of toxic behavior.