I Miss My Daughter: Living With the Silence After Everything Fell Apart

“I sent the email. I waited. What came back was nothing.”

What does it feel like when your child stops speaking to you? After nearly three years away, I came home determined to rebuild my relationship with my kids. But rebuilding isn’t simple—and sometimes, it feels like you’re the only one trying. This is what it’s like to live with that silence, to keep reaching out, and to hold onto hope when nothing comes back.

I haven’t written in a while. Not because I didn’t have anything to say—but because I didn’t know how to say this.

April 20th was my oldest daughter’s birthday. She turned 16.
We haven’t been talking since last summer.

I sent her a simple email. Just reaching out.

I was in class all day on the 20th. I couldn’t leave.
But even knowing she probably wouldn’t respond, I kept checking anyway.

I told myself maybe this would be the day.
Maybe she’d write back. Maybe something simple like, “Can we go to dinner?”

But that’s not what happened.

What happened was silence.

Nothing.

Just another day of hoping for something that never came.

And sitting there, checking my phone over and over again, I kept thinking about how it says that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted.

I hope that’s true.

Because this is what that feels like.

16 years ago, I remember carrying her in the mother-baby unit at the hospital. I was a brand new father, and I could not have been more proud.

Our life wasn’t perfect—not even close. We were broke. There were times we didn’t know how we were going to make it. We even went through a period of homelessness when she was about four.

But we were close.

That part was real.

When my second child was born, they were inseparable for a while. Later on, normal sibling stuff took over, but at the beginning, they stuck together. When her younger sisters were born, she stepped into that role in a way that I’ll never forget.

I even spent half a summer on the road with her when I was driving truck. She liked it at first. Then she got bored. But we had that time.

We had a relationship.

Things started to change when I was detained in the U.S.

She was the one I could still reach. The one who would pick up when I called from prison. Those calls mattered more than I can explain.

Over time, things shifted. My (now ex) wife became more distant. And if I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that still gets angry when I think about how all of that played out.

Because I didn’t just lose time. I lost ground.

And when you’re on the inside, you don’t get a say in how things change on the outside.

You just come back and deal with whatever’s left.

When I got back to Canada, I was counting the days until I could see my kids again. It had been nearly three years.

Within a few days, I saw most of them. Dinner. A movie. It should have felt like a fresh start.

It didn’t.

I remember getting on the train afterward, heading back to the shelter.

That’s when my ex-wife dropped the first bomb.

She made it clear that if I wanted to see my kids, I was going to have to play by her rules.

And I knew what she was asking wasn’t right. I knew it.

But knowing that and being able to do something about it are two different things.

That’s the part nobody really talks about.

It was at that moment that I first became scared.

Up until then, I thought I understood what I was walking into. I thought I had some kind of footing.

I didn’t.

Sitting on that train, it hit me that things were not going to go the way I thought they would.

And if I’m being honest, I think part of me knew right then that things might never be the same.

I just wasn’t ready to admit it.

I knew I had to explain what happened—at least as much as I could.

That conversation wasn’t simple. I was living in a shelter. No privacy. No real space to have the kind of conversation that actually matters.

Eventually, I got the chance to speak with her one-on-one.

I told her the truth. Not every detail—but the truth.

It wasn’t enough.

I told her that sometimes people act out. Sometimes we make decisions that hurt the people we love. I told her I was guilty of that.

I apologized. Not just for what happened to me—but for what it did to her. To all of them.

I meant it.

But meaning it doesn’t always fix it.

If I could go back, I would change a lot of things.

But that’s not how this works.

There are no do-overs. Just consequences. And the long, frustrating process of trying to rebuild something that feels like it’s slipping further away the harder you reach for it.

I love my kids. That hasn’t changed. It won’t change.

But right now, there’s distance. There’s silence.

And I hate it.

I am afraid that I’m going to end up on the outside of their lives for good.

I am even more afraid that they’re going to believe I chose that—that I didn’t want a relationship with them.

That’s not true. Not even close.

But I don’t get to control what they believe right now.

All I can do is keep showing up. Keep reaching out. Keep trying—even when it feels like I’m doing it alone.

And some days, that silence… it doesn’t just come from them.

It feels like God is quiet too.

I don’t understand that.

But I’m still here.

Still waiting.

Still reaching out—even when nothing comes back.

Because I’m still their father.

And I’m not giving up on them.