Trying to Be Their Father

When loving your children isn't the problem, but finding a way to be present in their lives is.

When I returned to Canada in March 2025, I wanted one thing more than anything else: to have my family back.

I knew things wouldn't be easy. There was a lot of damage to deal with, trust to rebuild, and hurt that couldn't simply be erased because I was home again. My oldest daughter was angry about what had happened in the United States. I tried to explain my side of the story, but I also wanted her to understand that I wasn't running away from responsibility for my actions. I knew I had made mistakes, and I knew there were consequences.

But knowing that and being able to repair the damage were two very different things.

For more than a year, my oldest and I barely spoke. We only began communicating again after she entered the care of Children's Aid. Since then, I've tried to make amends and find ways to be present in my children's lives. I love them deeply. But loving my children and being able to spend time with them are two very different things, too.

I've been limited to supervised visits, and I haven't seen my younger two daughters since last Christmas. That has been one of the hardest parts of trying to rebuild my life. I want to be there for my children. I want to know what's happening in their lives, share ordinary moments with them, and be their father in ways that go beyond occasional visits.

Right now, even the simplest things can be complicated.

Trying to Stay Connected

Late last week, I took a moment to send something to my younger two daughters through Amazon. I'm acutely aware that they haven't really had anything to remind them of me over the past nine months or so. At the suggestion of my oldest daughter, I decided to send them a set of “dumpling squishies” that she thought they would both enjoy.

I arranged for the gifts to include a note, and they should have arrived around Sunday. But I have very little confidence that my daughters will actually receive the note. In the past, gifts I've sent have been presented as coming from their mother or their sisters instead of from me. I don't know what happened with these particular gifts, but the uncertainty is painful.

I hate this feeling. My heart is breaking. I want my children to know that I think about them, that I love them, and that I haven't forgotten them. Yet even something as simple as sending a gift leaves me wondering whether they'll know it came from their father.

What makes this even harder is feeling that there are people who might be able to help bridge this distance, but I can't make that happen myself. I'm left trying to find whatever ways I can to stay connected, never knowing how much of that effort actually reaches my kids.

I struggle with the fact that Children's Aid has the ability to help me see my younger daughters, yet I still don't have that opportunity. From where I stand, this is a reasonable request. I want to maintain a relationship with my children. I want their older sisters to be able to see them, too. I want an arrangement that allows those relationships to continue in a safe and appropriate way.

Instead, my relationship with Children's Aid has become increasingly adversarial. I feel as though a decision has already been made about me, and that I'm now trying to convince people to look beyond that decision. I can't know exactly what others have concluded, but I know how this process feels from my side: I'm trying to find a way forward, and I don't feel that the people with the power to help are willing to meet me halfway.

I can't make those decisions for them. I can only keep asking for a way forward and trying to find whatever opportunities remain to be part of my children's lives.

A Visit That Didn't Feel Natural

After more than a year without seeing my oldest daughter and roughly two months without seeing my second-oldest, I finally had a supervised visit with both of them on Monday, October 5.

The visit was bittersweet. I was happy to finally see my daughters again, but the whole thing felt cold and clinical. I knew a staff member would be in the room to supervise the visit and make sure we didn't discuss anything we weren't supposed to. I understood why she was there. That didn't mean I had to like it.

I hated having someone else present throughout the visit, watching our interactions. I wanted to take a picture, something ordinary that a father might want to do when he finally gets to spend time with his children again, but I wasn't permitted to.

For now, I have to work within the arrangements available to me, even when those arrangements make something as simple as spending time with my daughters feel unnatural.

I tried to do everything I realistically could to make the visit better. I made a chocolate cream pie for the kids, complete with whipped cream. I brought drinks and bought a pizza from a nearby pizza place.

It cost $37 for a one-topping pizza.

I honestly wasn't expecting it to be that expensive. I was glad I could do it, even though I knew it wasn't sustainable for my finances. At the time, I thought it would be okay because I was starting what I expected to be a good job in a few days.

I wanted the visit to be special. I wanted my daughters to enjoy themselves. I wanted to make the most of the time I had with them.

The visit seemed to go reasonably well until my second daughter started asking when it would be over. She had other things to do, and she wanted to get on with them.

I know she wasn't necessarily trying to hurt me. But it hurt all the same. I had spent time preparing for the visit, trying to make it something special, and hearing that she was bored was difficult. I also worried about how it might look to the person supervising us and whether it could affect future visits.

That's one of the things I struggle with most about these arrangements. Everything feels performative. I feel as though I have to act a certain way to impress the person supervising the visit, while trying to build a genuine connection with my own child.

I hate feeling that I have to make every visit a production.

I want these visits to feel natural, but they don't. I'm trying to be a father while remaining conscious that someone is watching and evaluating the interaction. It's a tough balancing act.

Hoping for Something More

I've spoken with my oldest daughter throughout the week. She wants to see her younger sisters, and I want to see them, too.

My older daughters have expressed discomfort about visiting their mother, and I don't want to dismiss how they feel.

One possibility would be to have my younger daughters join the supervised visits with their older sisters. That could give the girls an opportunity to spend time together in an arrangement where everyone knows what to expect. It would also give me a chance to see my younger daughters again.

I really hope we can make something like that work.

I know it won't resolve everything, but it would be a step toward keeping these relationships alive. Right now, even the possibility of seeing all four of my children together feels significant.

I'm not asking for everything to be fixed overnight. I'm not expecting one visit to undo years of hurt or make all the difficult feelings disappear. I just want opportunities to be present in my children's lives and to keep building relationships with them.

I want the chance to be their father.

The Kind of Father I Want to Be

There's another part of being a father that I've always believed in, even when it isn't easy.

My kids don't believe in God right now. Of course I want them to. My faith has become an important part of my life, and I would love for them to experience that for themselves.

But I've always wanted my kids to make their own choices. I can't see how forcing my views on them would ever make things better. I don't want them to believe in God simply because their father tells them they should. If they ever come to faith, I want it to be genuine. I want them to have their own identities, to think for themselves, and to make decisions because they believe those decisions are right—not because they feel obligated to please me.

That doesn't mean I don't care about the choices they make. I care deeply. I'm their father. I want to protect them, guide them, and be someone they can turn to. But I've never believed that being their father means I should control every decision they make.

First Corinthians 13:4–7 speaks about the kind of love I want to show. Love is patient. Love is kind. It doesn't insist on its own way.

I find that difficult to sit with right now.

I want my family back. I want to see all four of my children. I want to spend time with them without arranging appointments, having someone supervise us, or wondering when I'll get another opportunity.

I'm not going to pretend those feelings disappear because I read a passage about love. I still hurt. I still get angry. I still struggle with the limits placed on my relationship with my children.

But I don't want my pain to become a reason to demand that my children feel a certain way about me. I don't want them to believe what I believe just to please me, tell me what I want to hear, or pretend everything is fine when it isn't.

I want a relationship with them that is real. I want them to be able to make their own choices and still know that their father loves them.

I can't force that kind of relationship into existence. I can keep trying to be the father I want to be, keep looking for appropriate ways to stay connected, and hope that the effort makes a difference.

I don't know when I'll see my younger daughters again, or how long rebuilding these relationships will take. I wish I had better answers. I wish I could do more.

For now, I have to keep trying.

I love my children, and I want them to know that—not because they owe me anything in return, but because they deserve to know they are loved.