When We Lost Our Grandchildren

I'll never forget the day Emma stopped answering our calls.

My wife Florence and I had just returned from our usual Tuesday morning coffee when I noticed three missed calls from our son, James. "Dad, I need to talk to you," his voicemail said. His voice sounded hollow, defeated. "Emma and I are done. She's asked me to move out."

We knew things had been difficult between them. You could feel the tension at Sunday dinners, see it in the way they barely looked at each other. But you always hope couples will work things out, especially when there are children involved. Our three grandchildren, Lucy (12), Sam (8), and little Rosie (5), were our world. We'd been there since each of them was born. We did school pickups twice a week. They stayed with us during half terms. Florence taught Lucy to bake. I'd been taking Sam to football practice every Saturday for three years.

When James asked if we could help him with his legal fees, we didn't hesitate. He's our son. He was going through the worst time of his life. Of course we'd help him. We took money from our savings, the holiday fund we'd been building for years. Italy could wait. Our son needed us.

What we didn't expect was Emma's reaction.

The Day Everything Went South

I tried ringing Emma two weeks after James moved out. I wanted to check on the children, maybe arrange to take them to the park like we usually did on Saturdays. The phone rang and rang. No answer. I sent a text: "Hi Emma, hope you and the kids are okay. Can we pop round Saturday morning? X"

Nothing.

Florence tried the next day. Then I tried again. We started to worry. Had something happened? Were they all right? Finally, after nearly a week, Emma sent a single message: "I need space. Please don't contact us."

"Space?" Florence said, reading the message over my shoulder. "What does that mean? We haven't done anything wrong. We're just worried about the children."

We tried to give her a week. Then two weeks. I stood outside the school one afternoon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the kids. I saw Sam in the playground, laughing with his friends. He looked fine, happy even. When he spotted me by the fence, his face lit up. He started running towards me, but then Emma appeared. She took his hand and led him away. He kept looking back at me, confused.

That night, I couldn't sleep. The look on Sam's face kept playing in my mind.

The Longest Seven Months

People who haven't been through this don't understand what it does to you. It's not like a bereavement, where there's closure, where people understand your grief. It's more like your grandchildren have just disappeared, and you're expected to carry on as normal.

Florence stopped baking. What was the point? There was no one to share it with. I cancelled my Saturday football helper role. The coach was understanding, but I couldn't face it without Sam there.

We'd see photos Emma posted on Facebook. Birthday parties we weren't invited to. First day of school photos we should have taken. Rosie's first school play. Lucy's swimming certificate. All these moments we were missing.

"We could just turn up at the house," I said one evening. We'd opened a bottle of wine, something we rarely did.

"And then what?" Florence replied. "Emma calls the police? We make things worse? We scare the children?"

She was right, of course. But doing nothing felt impossible too.

Our daughter, Claire, tried to mediate. She'd always got on well with Emma. But Emma wouldn't even see her. "Tell your parents they destroyed my marriage," was all she'd say.

We hadn't destroyed anything. James and Emma's marriage had broken down long before we got involved. But I started to wonder if Emma really believed that, or if she just needed someone to blame.

When James Said 'Court'

Seven months in, James suggested we go to court. He'd been talking to a solicitor about his own arrangements with the children, and they'd mentioned that grandparents could apply too.

"Court?" Florence said. "Against Emma? That'll make everything worse."

But what choice did we have? The children were growing up without us. Lucy was becoming a teenager. We were missing everything. I'd already missed Sam's ninth birthday.

The solicitor said we'd need something called a MIAM first. Mediation Information and Assessment Meeting. Just the name made it sound formal and scary. But we had to try something.

The Lady Who Changed Everything

The mediator's name was Sarah. She had kind eyes and this way of making you feel heard. She didn't rush us through anything.

"Tell me about your relationship with your grandchildren," she said, and Florence started crying. Just saying their names out loud to someone who actually listened, it was like a release valve opening.

We told her everything. The school runs, the overnight stays, teaching Lucy to make Victoria sponge, Sam's football, Rosie's obsession with dinosaurs. How we'd been there for every scraped knee and bad dream. How we'd helped Emma too, watching the kids when she went back to uni to finish her degree, supporting her when she had postnatal depression after Rosie.

"Emma thinks we took sides," I explained. "We didn't. We just helped our son when he needed us. Wouldn't any parent do that?"

Sarah listened. She didn't judge. Then she asked, "Would you like me to write to Emma? Invite her to mediation?"

I didn't think Emma would agree. Why would she? She'd been ignoring us for months. But Sarah said she'd try, and that refusing mediation might not look good if we ended up in court anyway.

The Phone Call

Three weeks later, Sarah emailed us. "Emma's agreed to come in for her own MIAM."

I actually shouted out loud. Florence came running from the kitchen thinking something was wrong.

"Don't get your hopes up too much," Sarah warned. "She's agreed to hear about mediation, but that doesn't mean she'll agree to a joint session. Let's take this one step at a time."

But it was the first positive thing that had happened in months. Florence and I held hands that night, something we hadn't done properly since this all started. Maybe, just maybe, we'd get our grandchildren back.

Face to Face

The joint mediation session was two weeks later. I'd never been so nervous in my life. Not even when I gave my speech at James's wedding.

Emma arrived ten minutes late. She looked tired, older somehow. There were dark circles under her eyes. She barely looked at us as she sat down.

Sarah explained how it would work. Everyone would get a chance to speak without interruption. Then we'd work together to find solutions.

"Emma," Sarah said gently, "would you like to start? Tell Richard and Florence how you're feeling."

Emma's voice was quiet at first. "You funded James's divorce. You paid for him to leave us. How am I supposed to trust you with my children when you did that?"

It hurt to hear, but I bit my tongue. This was her time to talk.

"And I know you'll talk about me to them. You'll make me the bad guy. You'll tell them their mum broke up the family." Her voice cracked. "They're all I have. I can't let you turn them against me."

Florence reached for a tissue. Not for herself, for Emma. She pushed the box across the table.

"We would never do that," Florence said when it was her turn. "Emma, those children are everything to us. We'd never hurt them by saying bad things about their mother. Never."

"We didn't fund a divorce," I added. "We helped our son pay for legal advice because he was struggling. That's all. We weren't taking sides against you. We weren't trying to break up your family. You and James were already separated when he asked for help."

The Truth Comes Out

What happened next surprised us all.

Emma started talking about how alone she felt. How hard it was being a single parent to three children. How she was struggling with work, with childcare, with everything. How James's parents helped him move into a nice flat while she was juggling everything by herself.

"I see the photos on his Facebook," she said. "He's taking them to restaurants and adventure parks. Places I can't afford. And I know you paid for those too."

We hadn't, actually. James had been saving money by living more simply. But I could see how it looked from Emma's side.

"I miss having your help," Emma admitted, so quietly we almost didn't hear. "The kids miss you. Rosie keeps asking why you don't pick them up anymore. Sam cried when he couldn't do football with you this season. Lucy thinks you don't love her anymore."

That broke both of us. The idea that those children thought we didn't love them.

"We love them more than anything," Florence said, her voice thick with emotion. "This has been killing us. We just want to be their grandparents again. We're not trying to undermine you or take sides. We just want to be part of their lives."

Sarah let us sit with that for a moment. Then she said, "It sounds like everyone here wants the same thing. The children need their grandparents, and Emma, it sounds like you need support too. Can we work out how to make this happen safely?"

Baby Steps

The agreement didn't happen overnight. We had three more mediation sessions over the following month. But slowly, we built a plan.

Sarah suggested a "stepping stone" approach. Start small, build trust, then increase contact gradually.

Week one and two, we'd meet at the local park. Just two hours on Saturday mornings. Emma would be there too, just sitting on a bench nearby. Supervised, really, though Sarah didn't use that word.

That first Saturday, I thought my heart might burst. Rosie saw us and ran so fast she nearly fell over. "GRANDAD!" She crashed into my legs and wrapped her arms around me. Sam was more hesitant, but when I asked if he wanted to play football, his face transformed.

Lucy hung back. She's twelve, old enough to feel confused and hurt by everything that had happened. But when Florence suggested they check out the new duck family by the pond, she came along.

Those two hours flew by. When it was time to leave, none of us wanted to go.

"Next Saturday?" I asked Emma hopefully.

She nodded. "Next Saturday."

Coming Home

By week five, Emma let us take them to our house for the afternoon. Unsupervised.

Florence had baked a chocolate cake. The kitchen still smelled like it when they arrived. Rosie went straight to the biscuit tin, like she always used to. Sam found his old toys in the spare room exactly where he'd left them. Lucy asked if she could still have her old bedroom when she stayed over.

"Of course you can, love," Florence said. "It's always been your room."

Over tea, we talked about ground rules. Emma had been clear in mediation that she didn't want us discussing the divorce with the children. We agreed completely. That was adult business, not theirs.

"And if they ask questions about why we weren't around?" I asked.

"Tell them the truth," Emma had said in our last mediation session. "That grown-ups sometimes need time to work things out, but that you never stopped loving them."

So that's what we did. Simple, honest, age appropriate.

Six Months Later

I'm writing this from my kitchen table while Florence is upstairs reading bedtime stories to Rosie. It's half term, and all three children are staying with us for a few days. Emma dropped them off this morning looking more relaxed than I've seen her in over a year.

"Thanks for having them," she said. "I'm actually meeting some friends for lunch tomorrow. First time in ages I've had a Saturday to myself."

"Anytime," Florence said. And she meant it.

Tomorrow I'm taking Sam to football. He asked if I could be his helper again, and the coach welcomed me back. Lucy wants Florence to teach her how to make macarons, apparently they're all over TikTok now. Rosie has informed us we're having a tea party with all her teddies.

Emma and I have built a working relationship. We text about the kids, share photos, coordinate schedules. Is it perfect? No. There's still some awkwardness, some careful stepping around certain topics. But we're managing.

The children are thriving. That's what matters most.

What We Learned

If you're going through something similar, here's what I'd tell you:

Don't wait as long as we did. Seven months was too long. The kids were confused and hurt. The longer it goes on, the harder it is to fix.

Mediation works. I was sceptical at first. I thought Emma would never agree, and even if she did, I didn't see how sitting in a room talking would fix anything. I was wrong. Having someone neutral there, someone who could help us actually hear each other, it made all the difference.

Listen to the other person's pain. Even if you don't agree with it. Emma wasn't being vindictive, she was scared and hurt. Once we understood that, everything changed.

It's not about you. This was hard to accept. Yes, we were in pain. Yes, we were the innocent party. But ultimately, it's about what's best for the children. Keep that front and centre.

Be patient. The stepping stone approach felt painfully slow at the time. Just two hours? Supervised? But it gave Emma confidence that we'd respect her boundaries, and it gave the children time to adjust.

Swallow your pride. There were moments I wanted to say "We have rights! We shouldn't have to beg!" But being right isn't the same as being helpful. Sometimes you have to put your ego aside.

The Cost of Going to Court

We were prepared to go to court. Our solicitor estimated it would cost somewhere between £5,000 and £10,000, possibly more if it dragged on. The emotional cost would have been even higher.

Mediation cost us a little over £600 total. Four sessions plus the initial MIAMs. And we were eligible for a government voucher that covered £500 of that.

But more than the money, mediation meant we could rebuild our relationship with Emma. If we'd gone to court, we might have won the legal argument, but we'd have lost any chance of being a real family again. The children would have been caught in the middle of a court battle between their mum and their grandparents. How traumatic would that have been for them?

To Other Grandparents

I know how you're feeling. The loss, the confusion, the anger, the helplessness. Some days you'll want to fight, to demand your rights, to show up at the house and refuse to leave. Other days you'll feel like giving up, like the pain isn't worth it.

Don't give up. But don't fight fire with fire either.

Those children need you. Even if they're too young to say it, even if they don't fully understand what's happening, they need their grandparents. Your love, your stability, your connection to their family history, it all matters.

And the parents, even if they're being difficult, they're struggling too. Separation and divorce tear families apart. People say and do things they don't mean. They put up walls to protect themselves. Sometimes those walls keep out the people who could help most.

Give mediation a real chance. Be humble. Be patient. Be willing to hear things that might hurt. Focus on the children, not your rights.

We got our grandchildren back. You can too.

Richard and Florence's names have been changed to protect their family's privacy.