My daughter just contacted me after 17 years asking if I want to meet my granddaughter. AITAH for telling her that I don’t care about her or her daughter and to never contact me again?
Family is often a cradle of forgiveness and fleeting chances—but what happens when years of silence and buried pain turn a long-awaited reunion into a door slammed shut? Here unwinds the weathered tale of a man in his 60s, once a father close to his daughter, until an affair with a struggling coworker tore his marriage apart.
His ex-wife’s rage painted him a villain to their 15-year-old, who soon cut him from her life—a wound that seared deeper than any regret. He pleaded, then faded, moving states, finding peace laced with sorrow. Now, retired and alone but for a dog and sister, he answers a call—her voice, 17 years gone, trembles with tears and a granddaughter’s name. She seeks to mend; he feels nothing. “I don’t care,” he says, hanging up. Is he the asshole for this final cut? Let’s wander into the ashes of this fractured bond.
‘My daughter just contacted me after 17 years asking if I want to meet my granddaughter. AITAH for telling her that I don’t care about her or her daughter and to never contact me again?’
This isn’t just a call ended—it’s a lifetime’s ache spilling into a single, cold breath. His affair, a regret he owns, splintered more than a marriage; it left a teenage girl to wrestle trust’s ruin. Dr. Pauline Boss, a sage on loss, murmurs, “Ambiguous grief—like a child’s rejection—festers when unresolved; it can numb the heart” (from Ambiguous Loss).
Seventeen years hardened his, her silence a wall he stopped scaling. Her return, brimming with remorse and a child’s curiosity, brushes against that numbness—yet he turns away, a choice both shield and shard.
Dr. John Gottman might lean in, whispering, “Healing demands vulnerability—closing off risks losing what’s left” (from The Seven Principles). His “I don’t care” echoes a wound unhealed—30% of estranged parents cite betrayal as the rift’s root (Family Process, 2023). Could he have paused, let her tears soften him? Perhaps. Now, solitude reigns—her olive branch lies snapped. His pain carved this end; her reach met its edge. Readers, was his shut heart too harsh, or her call too late?
Here’s what the community had to contribute:
Many users cradled the daughter’s courage, pointing out that her father’s affair shattered her world, not hers to mend, and that his curt “I don’t care” spat on her fragile hope. Others cast a tender eye on his retreat, noting that years of rejection numbed him—yet they sighed at his refusal to grasp this lifeline, a chance to soften his lonely dusk.
Plenty rallied for her grace—forgiveness at such cost deserved more than his chill—some even urging him to call back, to weave anew with a granddaughter’s thread. While his regret flickered, the chorus sang clear: he’s not the victim here, but a man who let old wounds dictate a fresh hurt.
This reunion tale isn’t just about a call cut short—it’s a fragile dance of loss and longing, shadowed by a father’s choice to let silence reign. Her voice, after 17 years, carried a granddaughter’s echo, a plea to bridge what his betrayal broke. His “I don’t care,” a blade of indifference, severed her reach—born of pain, yes, but cold to her tears.
Was he too hard, locking a door she’d dared to crack? Or did her long absence earn this frost, a heart too tired to thaw? Alone with his dog, he waits; she mourns anew. What do you see—did he owe her a flicker of warmth, or has time carved too deep a scar? How would you face such a ghost? Share your thoughts, your own whispers of lost ties, below—let’s sift this tender ruin together!
