Title: Three months since they stopped answering my calls
So it’s been exactly three months since Aarav (12) and Priya (9) stopped picking up when I ring. Three months of automated voicemails that I know they’re never going to hear because she’s probably blocked my number on their phones by now.
The worst part? My mum keeps asking when she’s going to see her grandchildren again. She doesn’t understand that I can’t just ‘fix this’ like she thinks I should. In our community, divorce is shameful enough, but not seeing your own kids? People think you must have done something terrible. The aunties at the gurdwara have stopped asking about them altogether and I know they’re all talking behind my back.
My ex has them completely convinced I abandoned them when I moved out. Never mind that she changed the locks while I was at work. Never mind that I’ve been trying to see them every single day since August. They won’t even look at me when I drop off their birthday presents at school.
I found myself sitting outside their school yesterday at pickup time just hoping to catch a glimpse of them. Priya walked right past my car like I was invisible. She used to run up and bang on the window when she saw me.
My solicitor says we need to wait for the next court date in January but I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s like they’ve died except they’re still alive and living fifteen minutes away from me.
rab ne sab kuch cheen liya hai - God has taken everything away.
I know that feeling of sitting in the car watching them walk past like you don’t exist. I used to do the same thing outside Emma’s secondary school - seven years ago now. She was 13 then, about Aarav’s age.
The community pressure makes it so much worse, doesn’t it? I remember how the silence would fall when I walked into places where everyone knew. Like you’d committed some unforgivable crime by existing without your child.
That line you wrote - “like they’ve died except they’re still alive” - I felt that in my chest. It’s exactly that kind of grief, isn’t it? The worst kind because there’s no funeral, no closure, just this endless hoping and waiting. I still write Emma letters she’ll probably never read, but I keep writing them anyway. Some days that’s all I can do.
God mate, three months of silence from Aarav and Priya… I can’t even imagine. I’m only six weeks into this nightmare with my two and it’s already destroying me.
The community pressure is the worst part isn’t it? My dad keeps saying “beta, just go round there and sort it out” like I haven’t tried everything already. Had an uncle actually suggest I wasn’t being “man enough” about the whole situation. They don’t get that she’s turned the kids against me so completely that showing up just makes things worse. The shame of it all… I’ve stopped going to the temple because I can’t handle the looks and the whispered conversations.
That bit about Priya walking past your car like you’re invisible - that properly broke my heart reading it. My 8-year-old used to FaceTime me every night before bed and now when I try calling it goes straight to voicemail too. Court in January feels like a lifetime away.
I’m sitting in my car outside Walmart right now and your post just hit me so hard. The school pickup thing - I’ve done that too. Same feeling of being a ghost to your own kids.
My twins are 8 and 10 and it’s been about 6 weeks since they stopped taking my calls here in Ohio. Their mom switched their phones to some family plan where she controls everything. Last Sunday I drove to their soccer game and watched Ethan score two goals from the parking lot because I knew if I got closer she’d cause a scene.
My lawyer keeps telling me to document everything too, waiting for our February hearing. But three months man… I can’t imagine. And the community pressure on top of it all. People here just assume if you don’t have your kids there must be a reason.
That line about them being alive but fifteen minutes away - that’s exactly it. It’s like the worst kind of grief because there’s no closure, just this constant hope and disappointment cycle.
Are you keeping records of all the attempted calls? My attorney said that’s crucial evidence for court.
This is the hardest part - watching them walk past like you’ve become invisible. My son’s children were 6 and 3 when it all started, and I’ll never forget the day my granddaughter Lily looked right through me at the playground. She used to shout “Granny June!” from across the park.
Five years on and I still find myself driving past their school sometimes, just hoping. The community aspect makes it so much worse, doesn’t it? At my bridge club they’ve stopped mentioning the grandchildren entirely - that polite silence where they used to ask how they were doing. It’s like a second loss on top of losing the children.
Your mum not understanding… mine’s the same. “Can’t you just talk to them?” she says, as if it’s that simple. The living bereavement, that’s exactly what this is. Fifteen minutes away but they might as well be on another planet.