They’re Gone, But Still Here

The house is quiet now. Too quiet. Silence presses in, filling the spaces where laughter once danced, where “Dad” echoed through the halls. It’s an emptiness that weighs heavy in the air, in the walls, in every room, and especially in my mind. I catch myself waiting, listening for a sound that won’t come.

They don’t say “Dad” anymore. That word is gone, stripped of meaning. I reach out, but all I get is my first name—if I’m lucky. It stings. I’m no longer their father—just a stranger next door, but he still receives a wave or an acknowledgement of some kind. They’ve been trained to forget me, taught to ignore the bond we had.

People say, “Hold on. They’ll come back.” But they don’t understand. They can’t grasp the hollowness of a heart that was once alive with their voices. My heart, where they once were, now brings only silence. It’s empty. I'd give anything to tell them to make their beds or hell, leave it unmade—Clothes thrown wildly, Oh, I’d give anything for that kind of mess. I cling to those remnants, hoping I won’t lose them completely.

A friend called the other day, said my kids looked “grown up.” Grown up? I can’t even picture it. A few years ago, I knew everything about their world. I was their safe place, the one they turned to for secrets and comfort. Now, I’m a spectator, watching from afar, pressing my hands against the glass wall that separates us.

I sit in my mind a lot now, I can’t help it. I clutch the things that were theirs, holding on to any feeling I still have of that moment. They probably don’t remember leaving the toys, those books. The way we used to curl up on the couch, heads on my shoulder—reading bedtime stories, laughing. They’re older now, living lives I can’t reach. That’s the hardest part—knowing they’re out there, living, while I’m just a shadow in their memories.

It’s a wound that never heals. Grief claws at me, pulling me apart piece by piece. It’s a pain only those who’ve lived it can truly understand. Some days, I wish they could feel this emptiness. Hearing “I don’t need you” or “I hate you” is one thing. Hearing nothing at all? That’s worse.

“Enjoy your new life,” they said, voices too young for such anger. Those words are not theirs. They’ve been fed lies, choked down until they believed them. They think I walked away. They think I chose someone else over them. I didn’t. But their trust has been twisted, memories erased by poison planted in their minds. They’ve been taught I’m not the father I promised to be. How do I know? Because my ex wives said the exact same words as my children did.

I remember when they were small—running to me at the door, arms outstretched, as if I were their entire world.. I’d lift them high, spinning them around, their laughter lighting up the room. Now, those memories feel distant, like scenes from another life. I can barely recall their voices, barely remember what it was like to be their dad.

They’re teenagers now, armed with words that shouldn’t belong to them. “Manipulation.” “Narcissist.” Pawns in someone else’s revenge. They throw these labels at me like weapons, each one a reminder that I’m no longer their father. Just a ghost, a shadow to forget.

I can’t hate them. God, I want to. Sometimes, I wish I could just walk away, close the door on this heartache. But I can’t. I’m their father. That’s the one truth I cling to, even as they turn away. I wait, hoping they’ll see through the lies. Hoping for even a glimpse of the love we once shared.

This kind of love is a curse. It doesn’t fade. It doesn’t let you forget. It roots you in place, holding you down with hope that feels more like a burden.

So, I wait. In this emptiness of my heart. With the memories that I wish would haunt my dreams—I pray for the hauntings every single night, I pray for any chance, to see them, even when I sleep. I wait for the day they’ll come back. And I’ll be here, in this same spot, because it’s all I know how to do.